John  Bratt 


<*SW 


iSu^ 


c 


I 


f^^^/^B 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


By  John  Bratt 


Lincoln  Cbtcap  Dallas 

THE  UNIVERSITY   PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1921 


Copyright,  1921 
MRS.   ELIZABETH    BRATT 


R.  R.  DONNELLKY  *  SONS  COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     Advent  into  the  World — Birthplace — Bread  Riot.  .  .        i 

II.     Childhood   Memories — Sunshine  and   Clouds — The 

Ministry  Is  Not  My  Calling — Early  Education ....        2 

III.  Ambition — An  Apprentice  to  a  Merchant — Youth 
in  Business — America  and  its  Opportunities — Why 
Not  ? — Tears  and  Good-Bye 7 

IV.  Leaving  England  for  America — A  Trip  into  Ire- 
land— O'Brien — A  True  Lover — Funeral  at  Sea — 
Land  Ahoy !   11 

V.     Arrival    at    New    York — A    Search    for    O'Brien's 

Katherine — Civil  War — Westward  to  Chicago. ...      16 

VI.     Arrival    at   Chicago — A   Letter    from   Katherine — 

O'Brien's  Hasty  Departure 18 

VII.  Life  in  Chicago — My  Wedding  Is  Planned  with- 
out My  Knowledge — Speculations  on  the  Chicago 
Board  of  Trade — A  Wreck  Investigation 20 

VIII.  Strenuous  Times — Lee's  Surrender  to  Grant — As- 
assination  of  President  Lincoln — I  Attend  Lincoln's 
Funeral 24 

IX.  Nothing  Ventured,  Nothing  Gained — Terrific 
Storm  at  Sea — My  Small  Fortune  Cast  upon  the 
Waters — Heavy  Hearted  but  Willing  to  Begin 
Again    27 

X.  Reembark  for  New  Orleans — Homeless,  Starv- 
ing and  no  Work — War  Prices — Employment  at 
Last 38 

XI.  Building  the  Levee  at  Morganzie — Living  too 
Close  to  Nature — Life  with  the  Levee  Gang — Merit 
Receives  Reward   43 

XII.  Experiences  as  Purchasing  Agent — Frazell  Kills 
O'Hay — Floods  Break  the  Levee — Freight  Checker 
on  a  River  Boat 47 

iii 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII.  Gallatin  Valley  Gold  Fever — Destination  Fourth 
Company  Post  (Ft.  Phil  Kearny) — Nebraska  City 
in  the  Early  Days — My  Five  Resolutions —  Life  as  a 
Bullwhacker — An  Enemy — Mr.  Bass 50 

XIV.  On  the  Overland  Trail — Fort  McPherson  in 
1866 — The  Morrow  Ranch — Other  Noted  Road 
Ranches 59 

XV.  Bass  Becomes  Intolerable — Stuck  in  the  South 
Platte  River — Red  Cloud's  Threat — A  Visit  to 
Spotted  Tail's  Daughter's  Grave — My  First  Chase 
by  Indians — Tenderfoot  Takes  a  Stand — My  Fight.     64 

XVI.  Cheyenne  Indians  Visit  Our  Camp — Dull  Knife 
and  His  Band  Became  Enraged — The  Peace  Pipe  Is 
Smoked — A  Quart  of  Whiskey  Poured  down  Ten- 
derfoot— A  Herd  of  Five  Thousand  Buffalo — 
Attacked  by  the  Arapahoes 74 

XVII.     Arrival  at  Fort  Phil  Kearny — Another  Controversy 

with  Bass — Mr.  Bass  under  Arrest 84 

XVIII.  Perilous  Times — Employed  by  Mr.  Carter — In- 
dians! Indians!  Indians! — More  Gallatin  Valley 
Gold  Enthusiasm — My  Guardian  Angel 87 

XIX.  Experience  at  Fort  Mitchell — Phil  Kearny  Mas- 
sacre— Sibson's  Road  Ranch — A  Ride  for  Life — Big 
Mouth's  Threat  and  Deception — A  Stranger  Crosses 
my  Path — Indian's  Revenge  on  an  Outlaw 103 

XX.  Frontier  Justice — Hunter  Tries  to  Bribe  the  Wrong 
Man — A  Forced  Confession — Negro  John  in  Love 
with  Puss — Grandma  Antelope  Is  Active — A  White 
Woman  Appears  on  the  Scene 119 

XXI.  Arrival  at  Pine  Bluffs — In  Charge  of  a  Store — 
Whiskey  and  Pets  Must  Go — Bibles  Placed  in 
Camp — Caught  Cribbing — A  Memorable  Night — 
Gold  Dust  in  a  Well — More  Indian  Excitement.  . .    136 

XXII.  Sherman  Station — Tie  and  Wood  Camp — Mr. 
Nuckolls  First  and  Last  Lawsuit — Lost  in  a  Bliz- 
zard— Too  Quick  for  the  Mexican — Honest  Mr. 
Carter 153 

iv 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII.  Experiences  at  Fort  McPherson  and  Wood  River 
— A  Government  Hay  Contract — Buffalo  Bill  and 
Other  Friends — The  Burke  Family — The  Fair 
Daughter — Embark  in  the  Cattle  Business — A  Com- 
promise with  the  Pawnees — Battle  Between  the  Paw- 
nees and  Sioux — Raw  Corn  Only  on  My  Menu — 
Again  My  Guardian  Angel  Protects 166 

XXIV.  Life  as  a  Cattleman — The  Firm  of  John  Bratt 
&  Co. — "Point  Lookout" — The  Home  Ranch — 
Trailing  Indian  Horse  and  Cattle  Thieves — The 
Cattleman's  Life  not  a  Picnic — Modernizing  the 
Cattle  Business — Origin  of  the  Word  "Maverick".  .    179 

XXV.  The  Round-Up — Initiating  the  Tenderfoot — 
Dangers  of  the  Cowboy — Organization  and  Manage- 
ment— Tribute  to  the  Cowboy 197 

XXVI.     Our   Cowboys — Characteristics — Adventures 209 

XXVII.  On  the  Range— A  Time  when  Might  Didn't 
Make  Right — Renew  the  Acquaintance  at  Dull 
Knife 222 

XXVIII.  Hardships  of  the  Cattle  Business — The  Disas- 
trous Prairie  Fire  of  1874 — "Buffalo  White"  Takes 
an  Icewater  Bath — Cattle  Companies  Become  Num- 
erous— "Buck"  Taylor's  Threat — How  "Sleepy" 
Was  Made  an  Early  Riser 228 

XXIX.  Citizen  Duties  in  Additon  to  the  Cattle  Busi- 
ness— Swim  the  River  to  Elect  a  Teacher — A  Snake 
in  a  Tobacco  Pocket — Two  Hotheads — Ogallala  in 
the  Early  Days — Honorable  Cattlemen 241 

XXX.     A  Brighter  Outlook — Love  Creeps  in — Marriage — 

Home  Ties 248 

XXXI.  Later  Days — Lost  His  Ambition  to  Become  a 
Cowboy — Organization  of  Frontier  County — A  Life 
Saved — The  North  Platte  Home  Guards — Our  Last 
Indian  Encounter 250 

XXXII.  Interesting  Developments — A  Trip  to  Pine  Ridge 
and  Rosebud  Agencies — Spotted  Tail — A  True 
Friend — The  Town  of  Whitman — A  Prayer  Meet- 
ing in  a  Dance  Hall 270 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXIII.  Active  Men  and  Strenuous  Activities — Colonel 
W.  F.  Cody — Major  North — A  Speedy  Run — 
Crooked  Tie  Inspector — Credit  Mobilier — A  Dang- 
erous Undertaking 278 

XXXIV.  Many  Irons  in  the  Fire — The  Birdwood  and 
Blue  Creek  Canals — I  am  Introduced  as  "Mr. 
Kelly" — The  Equitable  Farm  and  Stock  Improve- 
ment Company — Dissolution  of  Partnership 290 

XXXV.  Conclusion — Two  Terms  as  Mayor — Real  Estate 
and  Insurance  Business — A  Threatening  Letter — 
Brief  Review  of  My  Career 294 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


John  Bratt    Frontispiece 

Where  the  Writer  First  Saw  the  Light  of  Day 

Facing  page        I 

I  Well  Remember  Falling  into  the  River  Churnet 

Facing  page       2 

We  Became  Bitter  Enemies 3 

Father  Appeared  on  the  Scene 5 

St.  Edward's  Parish  School Facing  page       6 

An  Irish  Jaunting  Car 12 

Lincoln's  Funeral  Car Facing  page    26 

Life  as  a  Bullwhacker 52 

Cattle  and  Wagon  Corral 55 

Fort  McPherson  in  1866 Facing  page     60 

On  the  Overland  Trail 62 

Chimney  Rock Facing  page     66 

Court  House  and  Jail  Rocks Facing  page     66 

Red  Cloud   Facing  page     68 

Sitting  Bull Facing  page     68 

Indian  War  Dance 97 

Brigham  Young Facing  page  107 

Stage  Coach  Chased  by  Indians 108 

A  Degenerate  White  Man 116 

Grandma  Antelope  Becomes  Active 129 

Surrounded  by  a  Pack  of  Hungry  Wolves 149 

Photograph  of  the  Writer  taken  by  Mrs.  Larimer 

Facing  page   1 56 

Lost  in  a  Blizzard 159 

Driving  the  Golden  Spike 163 

General  Coe Facing  page  164 

Levi  Carter Facing  page  164 

Sioux  Squaw  and  Papoose Facing  page  175 

Pawnee  and  Sioux  Indians Facing  page  175 

Our  Ranch  Brand 181 

The  Home  Ranch 182 

A  Stampede 187 

On  the  Texas  Trail. 191 

Initiating  the  Tenderfoot 198 

Caught  in  a  Prairie  Dog  Hole 201 


Vll 


PAGE 

A  Hasty  Meal 202 

A  Branding  Scene 204 

Nibsey  on  a  Wild  Steer 210 

Birdwood  Ranch  and  Cowboys Facing  page  211 

Some  of  the  "Circle"  Cowboys  in  1888 Facing  page  213 

Cowboys  of  the  "Circle"  Outfit Facing  page  213 

Leonard  Cornet Facing  page  217 

The  Fate  of  the  Knee  Breeches 218 

The  Fire  Crowded  on  the  Heels  of  My  Horse 237 

"Buck"  Taylor Facing  page  238 

How  "Sleepy"  Was  Made  an  Early  Riser 239 

A  Crack  Shot 240 

Miss  Elizabeth  Burke Facing  page  249 

She  was  an  Outlaw 251 

I  Dare  Ride  Where  You  Dare  Drive 256 

Spotted  Tail Facing  page  273 

"Doc"  Middleton Facing  page  276 

Col.  W.  F.  Cody Facing  page  278 

Waste-gate  No.  i  on  Birdwood  Canal Facing  page  291 

John  Bratt Facing  page  293 


IN  LOVING  MEMORY 

THE  wife  and  four  daughters  of  a  most  beloved  hus- 
band and  father  have  endeavored  to  carry  out  his 
wishes  to  publish  his  autobiography,  so  that  his  friends 
and  relatives  may  read  the  story  of  his  very  eventful  life 
correctly  told. 

Often  when  urged  by  his  family  to  publish  this  he  would 
remark,  "Some  day  when  I  have  more  time  I  will  rewrite  it 
and  put  on  the  finishing  touches." 

But  this  time  never  came.  Being  in  comparatively  good 
health,  he  enjoyed  his  business  activities,  in  which  he  con- 
tinued until  three  days  before  his  sudden  and  unexpected 
death. 

His  original  writings  have  not  been  disturbed,  so  it  is 
hoped  that  the  readers  will  overlook  some  repetitions  which 
could  not  have  been  avoided,  considering  the  manner  in 
which  it  was  written.  As  he  himself  says :  "Sometimes  these 
were  written  under  difficulties  in  tent,  wagon  box,  ranch,  or 
on  the  open  prairie,  if  not  on  my  field  desk;  perhaps  on  a 
cracker  box,  the  cook's  bread  box,  the  end  gate  or  seat  of  a 
wagon,  the  skirts  of  my  saddle,  or  on  an  ox  yoke.  These 
facts  are  what  I  have  seen  and  done  in  years  of  activity,  often 
at  the  risk  of  my  life." 

The  many  temptations  that  confronted  the  early 
frontiersman  have  often  made  his  friends  marvel  that  he 
remained  a  clean  moral  man ;  though  he  professed  no  ortho- 
dox creed,  yet  he  had  an  unfailing  trust  in  a  protecting  God. 

The  writer's  description  of  frontier  life  as  cowpuncher 
and  cowboy,  with  its  buffaloes,  Indians  and  untold  hardships, 
will  ever  be  of  interest  to  the  reader. 

The  automobile  and  the  Lincoln  Highway  have  taken 
the  place  of  the  ox  train,  the  immigrants  and  the  Oregon 


Trail ;  yet  so  vivid  are  the  descriptions  that  even  now  as  you 
travel  over  parts  of  Colorado  and  Wyoming,  where  there 
are  miles  and  miles  of  nothing  but  sagebrush,  you  find  your- 
self almost  looking  for  the  Indian  and  horseman  to  appear 
and  are  somewhat  disappointed  because  they  do  not.  But 
they  have  disappeared  with  the  wilds  of  the  country  and  noth- 
ing but  memory  and  imagination  can  take  you  to  them  now. 


THE  PIONEER 

To-day  we  enjoy  the  beautiful  West, 
Its  rivers  and  mountains  and  plains; 

Let  a  thrill  of  thanksgiving  heave  in  the  breast 
For  the  pioneer  and  his  trials  and  pains. 

With  a  knife  in  his  boot 

A  gun  at  his  side, 
His  law  was  "Do  right," 

And  his  conscience  his  guide. 

He  knew  not  God  through  religion  or  creed. 

But  out  in  the  open,  the  stars  overhead, 
A  stick  for  a  pillow,  the  dew  for  a  spread, 

He  felt  a  Protector  that  met  every  need. 

With  the  courage  of  soldier  in  battle, 

No  fear  in  his  heart  or  dread, 
He  succeeded  in  blazing  the  trail 

Where  we  now  thoughtlessly  tread. 

The  sage  brush,  the  sunshine  and  rivers 

Are  there  and  the  lofty  pine  tree, 
But  pioneer,  bullwhacker  and  cowboy, 

A  thing  of  the  past  is  he. 

G.  B.  G. 


CHAPTER  I 

Advent  into  the  World — Birthplace — Bread  Riot 

ON  the  9th  day  of  August,  1842,  in  the  town  of  Leek, 
Staffordshire,  England,  the  writer  of  this  book  first 
saw  the  light  of  day,  at  the  time  the  bread  riots  were 
so  prevalent  in  many  parts  of  England.  I  have  often  heard 
my  parents  speak  of  those  exciting  days  and  say  that  my 
advent  into  the  world  at  that  particular  time  was  probably 
the  means  of  saving  our  home  from  destruction,  because 
father,  in  his  capacity7  of  minister  of  the  gospel,  had  incurred 
the  enmity  of  the  mob.  He  had  remonstrated  against  lawless 
and  violent  acts  in  the  destruction  of  life  and  property,  and 
the  angry  rabble,  enraged  at  this,  set  upon  and  beat  him  into 
insensibility,  after  which  they  started  to  demolish  our  home 
in  which  lay  my  poor  sick  mother  with  a  two-day  old  babe 
in  her  arms.  When  this  became  known  to  them,  it  appealed 
to  their  better  nature  and  our  home  was  spared. 


CHAPTER  II 

Childhood  Memories — Sunshine  and  Clouds — The  Ministry  is  Not 
My  Calling — Early  Education 

UNDER  the  kind  fostering  care  of  good  and  pious 
parents,  loving  sisters  and  brothers,  my  child  life  de- 
veloped into  boyhood  with  the  usual  incidents  of  joy 
and  sorrow  attending  it;  part  sunshine  and  part  clouds. 

While  in  short  dresses  I  remember  joining  some  neighbor- 
ing children  in  a  hunt  for  blackberries  in  nearby  woods,  and 
in  my  anxiety  to  keep  up  with  the  others,  I  took  off  and  laid 
down  my  skirt,  which  I  failed  to  find  when  ready  to  return 
home. 

I  remember  going  in  swimming  with  some  other  boys  and 
all  our  clothes  being  stolen,  so  that  we  had  to  wait  until  dark 
before  we  could  return  to  our  homes. 

I  remember  my  first  attendance  at  Sunday  school,  also  at 
day  school,  the  latter  kept  by  my  aunt,  and  how  a  pretty, 
flaxen-haired,  blue-eyed  miss  took  special  pains  to  teach  me  to 
knit  garters;  I  also  remember  sending  by  my  father  a  small 
basket  of  fruit  to  my  little  instructress,  for  which  thoughtful 
act  I  was  greatly  teased  by  my  sisters. 

I  well  remember  falling  into  the  river  Churnet  when  it 
was  a  raging  torrent.  A  plank,  used  by  workmen  at  the  silk 
dyehouse  owned  by  a  distant  relative,  had  broken  its  fasten- 
ings, and  in  my  boyish  efforts  to  push  it  back  I  fell  into  the 
river.  While  spinning  and  rolling  around  like  a  chip  in  the 
swift  current  I  thought  of  all  the  mean  things  I  ever  did.  I 
made  a  grab  for  my  Scotch  cap,  and  as  the  torrent  rushed  me 
under  the  stone-arched  bridge  I  wondered  if  the  large  crowd 
of  people  standing  on  the  battlements  would  see  me  and 
rescue  me.  While  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  my 
brain  I  felt  myself  crowded  against  a  hard  substance,  when 
the  current  began  to  whirl  me  around  like  a  spinning  top  and 
my  hand  caught  the  branches  of  a  tree,  to  which  I  clung 

2 


/  Well  Remember  Falling  into  the  River  Churnet 


Trails  of  Yesterday  3 

tenaciously  and  got  my  head  above  water.  Then  I  saw  that 
I  had  been  washed  against  a  pile  of  refuse  dyestuff,  up  which 
I  climbed,  and  thanks  to  my  lucky  star,  was  soon  on  terra 
firma,  glad  that  I  was  out  and  all  conceit  taken  out  of  me.  I 
fully  resolved,  while  picking  up  my  bowl  and  stick  and  steal- 
ing my  way  home,  never  to  bother  that  plank  again,  especially 
during  high  water.  I  experienced  no  bad  effects  from  this 
ducking  except  a  slight  deafness  in  my  left  ear,  which  bothers 
me  yet.  Mother  scolded  me,  made  me  put  on  dry  clothes, 
and  kept  me  in  bed  the  rest  of  the  day. 


We  Became  Bitter  Enemies 

I  also  well  remember  about  this  time  the  mean  tricks  of 
a  certain  goat  that  loafed  around  the  dyehouse  stables.  He 
seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  lying  in  wait  for  me  in  any  dark 
corner  on  my  return  home  at  night,  when  he  would  rush  at  me 
and  chase  me,  often  attacking  and  hurting  me.  The  result 
was  that  we  became  bitter  enemies  and  it  was  a  source  of  great 
relief  when  I  heard  he  was  dead.  He  had  simply  tackled  the 
wrong  fellow  and  had  died  in  his  efforts  to  be  boss. 

I  was  not  a  bad  boy,  but  I  often  wished  that  my  father 
was  not  a  minister,  so  that  I  could  be  free  to  act  and  play  like 
other  boys.  My  parents  often  advised  me  to  be  careful  about 
my  words  and  actions.  They  wanted  me  to  be  a  model  boy 
and  an  example  to  other  boys  of  the  town.     Father  would 


4  Trails  of  Yesterday 

often  invite  me  to  accompany  him  to  nearby  villages  where  he 
would  preach  and  en  route  talk  about  religion  and  encourage 
me  to  join  him  in  his  work.  This  was  all  very  good  but  some- 
times, I  must  confess,  rather  distasteful  to  me.  I  often 
longed  to  be  free  from  the  restraint  that  surrounded  me.  My 
parents  were  very  strict  about  the  company  I  should  keep. 

They  had  allowed  me  to  become  a  fifer  in  a  drum  and  fife 
band  belonging  to  a  temperance  organization  known  as  "The 
Band  of  Hope."  I  was  fond  of  music,  both  vocal  and  instru- 
mental. I  was  a  singer  in  the  Chapel  Choir  and  sang  at  many 
entertainments  before  I  was  twelve  years  old.  I  had  also 
been  permitted  by  my  parents  to  take  part  in  the  public  pre- 
sentation of  a  temperance  piece  known  as  John  Barleycorn,  in 
which  I  took  three  characters,  one  the  part  of  a  woman,  "Eliza 
Brokenheart"  (the  wife  of  a  drunkard),  a  bartender  and 
another  character. 

Occasionally  I  was  allowed  to  play  with  other  boys  when 
my  parents  were  satisfied  that  they  were  the  right  kind.  At 
one  of  these  gatherings  I  became  mixed  up  in  a  quarrel,  taking 
up  the  rights  of  another  boy  who  had  been  imposed  upon  by 
a  larger  one.  The  latter  challenged  me  to  fight.  I  tried  to 
avoid  this  but  a  cousin,  who  happened  to  be  there,  gave  me  to 
understand  that  I  must  fight  the  boy  and  whip  him,  otherwise 
he  would  whip  me.  Preliminaries  were  quickly  arranged  and 
before  taking  off  our  coats,  the  fight  was  on  in  dead  earnest. 
Under  the  earnest  backing  of  my  cousin  and  other  young  men 
present  we  were  just  getting  warmed  up  to  our  work  when,  to 
my  surprise  and  humiliation,  my  father  appeared  on  the  scene 
and  marched  me  home  where  I  received  further  punishment, 
together  with  a  long  moral  lecture  from  both  parents,  who 
said  that  I  had  brought  lasting  disgrace  upon  them.  This 
bad  break  on  my  part  was  no  doubt  the  cause  of  my  becoming 
fully  resolved  that  I  would  never  become  a  minister. 

After  attending  my  aunt's  school  I  was  sent  to  a  very 
strict  sectarian  school  kept  by  a  Miss  Turner,  who  was  a 
prominent  member  of  father's  church  and  a  friend  of  our 
family.    What  she  lacked  in  good  looks  she  made  up  in  disci- 


Trails  of  Yesterday  5 

pline.  I  got  along  nicely  with  her  until  one  day  one  of  the 
school  boys  unintentionally  broke  a  pane  in  one  of  the 
windows  with  a  snowball.  Miss  Turner  became  very  angry 
and  threatened  to  punish  all  if  the  guilty  one  did  not  go  to 
her  desk  and  acknowledge  it.  She  finally  called  me  up  and 
asked  if  I  knew  who  had  broken  the  pane.  I  told  her  I 
thought  I  did.  She  commanded  me  to  tell  his  name.  I  told 
her  I  could  not  do  that.  She  said  I  must  or  I  would  receive 
the  punishment.     I  replied  that  she  could  punish  me  but  I 


Father  Appeared  on  the  Scene 

would  not  give  the  boy's  name.  At  this  remark,  and  without 
a  moment's  warning,  she  struck  me  on  the  side  of  my  head 
and  knocked  me  to  the  floor  where  I  saw  stars  for  a  few 
moments.  When  I  got  up  I  made  a  rush  for  my  books,  slate 
and  cap.  She  tried  to  prevent  this  but  could  not.  I  went 
home  and  told  my  father  what  had  occurred.  He  said  I  ought 
to  have  told  the  boy's  name  and  he  ought  to  be  punished;  that 
he  was  not  a  manly  boy  or  he  would  have  acknowledged  break- 
ing the  pane,  especially  when  he  saw  I  was  being  punished  for 
his  act.  Father  said  he  would  see  Miss  Turner  that  evening 
and  explain  matters  to  her  so  everything  would  be  understood 


6  Trails  of  Yesterday 

in  the  morning.  I  told  father  that  he  could  talk  to  Miss 
Turner  if  he  wanted  to  but  I  would  not  go  to  her  school  again. 
He  said  I  must  not  talk  to  him  that  way.  I  told  him  he  could 
do  what  he  pleased  with  me,  even  to  cutting  me  up  into  strips, 
but  I  would  never  go  to  that  school  again.  And  I  did  not,  but 
was  sent  to  St.  Edwards  Parish  School,  taught  by  a  Mr.  Can- 
nings, my  parents  paying  a  stipulated  weekly  tuition  fee  for 
this  privilege. 


St.  Edward ' s  Parish  School 


CHAPTER  III 

Ambition — An  Apprentice  to  a  Merchant — Youth  in  Business — 

America  and  its  Opportunities — Why  Not? — Tears  and 

Good-bye 

1WAS  in  my  twelfth  year,  had  attended  the  Parish  school 
for  some  time,  had  read  the  Bible  through,  had  taken  an 

active  part  in  Sunday  School  work  where  I  had  taught  a 
class  of  little  ones,  sang  alto  in  the  Methodist  Chapel  choir 
and  was  an  active  worker  in  the  Band  of  Hope  and  other 
good  moral  organizations.  All  of  this  had  encouraged  my 
family,  especially  father,  to  hope  that  I  would  yet  study  for 
the  ministry,  but  my  fight  with  Arthur  K and  the  conse- 
quent disgrace  in  the  minds  of  my  parents,  changed  this  and 
assisted  me  materially  in  following  my  own  inclinations. 

It  was  about  all  father  could  do  to  support  our  family,  yet 
he  would  persist  in  aiding  every  poor  person  he  knew.  When  I 
would  appeal  to  him  for  better  clothes,  he  would  tell  me  not 
to  worry — that  the  Lord  would  provide  them.  Sometimes, 
however,  I  must  confess,  I  thought  the  Lord  had  forgotten 
me.  It  was  this,  combined  with  other  circumstances,  that 
caused  me  to  urge  and  finally  persuade  my  father  to  allow  me 
to  adopt  a  business  career.  I  was  accordingly  bound  out  for 
five  years  as  an  apprentice  to  a  merchant,  a  friend  of  our 
family.  This  merchant  had  two  children,  a  son  and  a 
daughter,  the  latter  a  little  older  than  myself.  I  was  taken 
in  and  treated  as  a  member  of  the  family.  The  daughter  was 
a  tall,  beautiful  girl  with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  a  fine  form. 
She  was  a  great  lover  of  pets,  among  which  were  a  parrot  and 
a  cat.  The  latter  was  an  especial  favorite  and  was  permitted 
at  times  to  eat  beside  her  at  the  table.  This  daughter  became 
very  kind  to  me  and  often  assisted  me  in  my  studies  before 
and  after  attendance  at  night  school,  where  I  was  taking  up 
special  branches.  I  had  won  the  confidence  and  esteem  of  my 
employer  and  his  good  wife  and  was  permitted  to  accompany 

7 


8  Trails  of  Yesterday 

the  daughter  to  and  from  church  and  other  places.  In  our 
constant  association  a  brotherly  and  sisterly  feeling  sprang  up 
between  us.  Young  as  I  was,  I  could  see  from  the  actions  of 
our  parents  and  others  interested  that  it  would  not  be  objec- 
tionable should  this  brotherly  and  sisterly  feeling  ripen  into 
love  and  ultimate  marriage,  for  perhaps  unknown  to  either 
we  had,  in  a  measure,  been  plighted  to  each  other  by  our 
respective  parents  who  later  on  gave  us  to  understand  that  at 
the  proper  time,  no  serious  objections  intervening,  we  would 
be  expected  to  seal  our  friendship  with  our  marriage  vows. 
Occasionally  when  alone,  the  daughter — whom  I  will  call  my 
adopted  sister,  as  that  term  better  describes  my  own  feelings 
in  the  matter — would  refer  to  our  future.  She  had  wealth, 
social  position  and  was  highly  educated,  while  I  was  a  poor 
boy,  trying  to  make  my  place  in  the  world,  an  employee  of 
her  father.  A  great  gulf  was  between  us  and  I  had  fully  de- 
termined, should  I  ever  learn  to  love  her,  never  to  ask  her 
to  marry  me  until  I  could  properly  support  her  in  the  station 
in  life  to  which  she  was  accustomed.  While  I  was  her  Sir 
Knight  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  anticipating  her  every  wish 
and  doing  everything  in  my  power  to  please  her  and  further 
the  interests  of  my  employer,  yet  never  for  one  moment  did  I 
act  the  role  of  the  lover,  believing  that  such  a  course  would  be 
unmanly  and  unworthy  of  the  confidence  placed  in  me  by  her 
family. 

I  was  closing  my  seventeenth  year,  my  apprenticeship  was 
ended,  and  I  was  offered  a  position  at  a  fair  salary  by  my  late 
employer,  which  I  declined  for  several  reasons,  contrary  to 
the  wishes  of  my  former  employer  and  my  family.  After  a 
short  vacation  and  a  trip  through  the  Potteries  in  Stafford- 
shire, Manchester  and  other  places,  I  concluded  to  go  into 
business  with  my  brother-in-law  in  Manchester,  opening  a 
general  provision  store  on  the  Oldfield  Road,  Salford.  A  few 
months'  trial  at  this  proved  unsatisfactory.  The  business  was 
too  top  heavy.  In  other  words,  too  many  bosses  for  the  work 
and  the  location  was  not  the  right  one,  so  I  decided  to  sell  my 
interest  or  buy  that  of  my  brother-in-law.      I  bought  his 


Trails  of  Yesterday  9 

interest,  then  looked  around  for  a  better  location  which  I 
soon  found  on  Ludgate  Hill.  I  sent  for  my  youngest  sister  to 
come  and  keep  house  for  me.  Here  I  remained  and  did  well 
until  I  was  twenty-one  years  old. 

I  had  read  every  book  and  newspaper  article  I  could 
find  that  told  anything  of  America.  I  had  read  "Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin."  Though  opposed  to  slavery,  my  feelings  went  out  to 
a  certain  extent  to  the  Southern  people,  who,  I  believed,  were 
fighting  for  their  rights — the  right  to  govern  themselves. 
This  sympathy  was  shared  by  seven-tenths  of  the  English 
people.  I  had  listened  to  the  talks  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher 
and  other  Northern  advocates  and  I  became  interested  in  the 
Civil  War,  termed  in  England  "The  Rebellion  in  the  North- 
ern States."  Civil  war  was  raging  and  it  was  a  question  at 
that  time  which  side  would  win.  War  or  no  war  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  to  close  out  my  business  as  soon  as  I  reached  the 
age  of  twenty-one  and  go  to  America,  that  home  of  the  free 
and  land  of  the  brave,  where  one  man  was  as  good  as  another 
and  where  I  would  not  be  obliged  to  bow  and  doff  my  hat 
to  the  country  squire  and  give  him  three-fourths  of  the  road. 
I  had  always  loved  America.  Its  large,  red  apples  that  came 
to  my  home  town  in  barrels  had  made  a  great  impression  on 
my  child  mind,  its  republican  institutions,  its  mighty  rivers, 
broad  prairies,  gold  mines,  its  undiscovered  wealth,  and  its 
great  possibilities  !  Who  would  not  want  to  emigrate  to  such 
a  free  and  glorious  country  and  get  out  of  the  ruts  trodden  by 
my  forefathers  generations  ago?  I  had  already  written  my 
parents  of  my  intention  to  close  out  my  business  and  go  to 
America.  Letters  arrived  thick  and  fast,  trying  to  persuade 
me  from  such  a  foolish  step.  Why  not  wait  until  the  war  was 
over?  How  foolish  to  give  up  a  good  business  for  an  un- 
certainty !  I  was  doing  well.  Mother  knew  I  would  be  killed 
and  she  would  never  consent  to  my  going  unless  I  promised 
not  to  join  the  army  or  navy.  Nothing  but  disaster  was  in 
store  for  me.  Even  my  adopted  sister  opposed  this  uncalled- 
for  step  and  my  old  employer  thought  there  was  a  good 
opening  for  me  to  remain  in  England  and  said,  "When  you 


10  Trails  of  Yesterday 

think  of  it,  John,  remember  you  are  going  to  a  new  country 
where  you  have  neither  friend  nor  relative.  It  is  being  dev- 
astated by  civil  war,  all  the  country  under  martial  law.  You 
will  be  drafted  into  the  army  and  rushed  to  the  front  at  the 
point  of  the  bayonet  the  moment  you  land,  if  not  captured  by 
the  'Alabama'  during  passage.  Think  of  the  wild  Indians 
and  other  lawless  men  you  will  meet.  Why  not  think  the 
matter  over  more  carefully  before  you  decide?"  Many 
letters  I  received  from  relatives  and  friends  who  no  doubt 
wished  me  well,  advocating  the  abandonment  of  the  con- 
templated move,  all  of  which  I  took  courage  to  ignore  and 
brush  aside.  I  finally  sold  my  business  in  Manchester  and 
took  my  sister  home,  where  I  bade  my  family  good-bye.  My 
poor  mother  was  much  grieved  and  would  not  let  me  go  until 
I  promised  that  I  would  join  neither  the  army  nor  navy  of  my 
own  free  will.  A  special  dinner  was  arranged  for  me  and  my 
parents  by  my  old  employer.  Here  I  was  for  three  long 
hours  subject  to  all  the  eloquence  that  could  be  used  by  my 
parents,  my  employer  and  his  family.  The  pictures  portrayed 
were  dark  if  I  went.  If  I  remained,  hints  were  thrown  out 
which  meant  a  closer  union  than  a  copartnership.  I  could  fill 
a  chapter  of  very  interesting  reading  if  I  gave  full  particulars 
of  what  occurred  in  that  last  farewell,  but,  with  the  reader's 
permission,  I  will  draw  the  curtain  here.  With  tear-filled  eyes 
I  bade  my  employer  and  his  family  good-bye.  It  took  tact 
and  courage  to  say  good-bye  to  these  good  people  without  dis- 
playing some  hidden  emotions  that  had  been  fostered  and 
encouraged  by  five  years  of  uninterrupted  kindness  on  the 
part  of  these  very  kind  people. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Leaving  England  for  America — A   Trip  into  Ireland — O'Brien — A 
True  Lover — Funeral  at  Sea — Land  Ahoy! 

AFTER  converting  all  my  little  property  into  gold  coin, 
bidding  my  family,  relatives  and  friends  a  last  farewell, 
with  as  little  baggage  as  possible  I  left  Liverpool  on  the 
Steamship  "City  of  Limerick"  on  the  22nd  day  of  June, 
1864,  for  New  York.  I  was  not  twenty-two  years  old,  my 
fellow  passengers  were  all  strangers  to  me,  and  not  until  we 
had  left  the  dock  and  were  plowing  our  way  through  the 
English  Channel  for  Queenstown  did  I  begin  to  realize  my 
loneliness.  The  knowing  ones  among  my  relatives  and 
friends  had  shaken  their  heads  and  predicted  all  kinds  of  ill 
luck  and  disaster  to  my  adventure,  going  to  a  strange  country 
where  I  had  neither  relatives  nor  friends  and  where  civil  war 
was  in  full  force,  and  where  some  wise  (?)  English  statesmen 
predicted  that  the  South  would  conquer  the  North.  A  few 
others  had  given  me  words  of  encouragement,  admired  my 
pluck,  as  they  termed  it,  and  told  me  I  would  come  out  all 
right  in  the  end.  These  prophecies,  together  with  thoughts 
of  the  future,  gave  me  food  for  thought,  but  on  the  whole  I 
found  my  time  well  occupied  during  the  voyage. 

We  arrived  at  Queenstown  in  the  evening,  and  since  our 
ship  had  to  remain  there  until  the  following  morning,  I  was 
invited  by  the  ship's  physician  to  accompany  him  to  Cork. 
The  evening  was  ideal  and  our  ride  in  a  jaunting  car  over  a 
beautiful  road  along  the  banks  of  the  River  Lee  to  the  old 
city  of  Cork  was  grand.  The  scenery  was  superb.  Arriving 
before  dark,  chaperoned  by  the  doctor,  who  knew  the  city 
well,  I  saw  many  of  the  old  but  substantial  buildings.  We 
stayed  at  the  best  hotel  and  after  a  good  supper,  attended  the 
theater.  The  doctor,  probably  for  a  joke,  ordered  the  best 
room  in  the  house  for  me — nothing  less  than  the  bridal 
chamber.    The  furnishings  were  beautiful — the  bed  a  dream. 

11 


12 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


A  blue  silk  canopy  top  covered  the  high  bed  posts.  The  bed 
proper  was  not  less  than  four  feet  high  and  one  climbed  into 
it  by  means  of  several  steps  covered  with  rich  carpet.  I  hesi- 
tated for  some  time  about  climbing  into  this  luxury  but  with 
the  thought  that  the  best  was  none  too  good  for  me,  I  dropped 
into  the  center  of  the  downy  mass,  which  not  only  enveloped 
me  but  which  I  thought  would  smother  me  before  morning. 
But  it  did  not.  The  previous  wakeful  night,  the  sea  air,  the 
jaunting  car  ride  and  exercise  made  me  sleep  like  a  log  until 
called  for  breakfast  the  following  morning.    After  breakfast 


An  Irish  Jaunting  Car 

and  a  stroll  through  the  principal  streets,  I  left  with  my  friend, 
the  doctor,  on  another  jaunting  car  for  our  boat  which  was 
scheduled  to  leave  Queenstown  at  n  :oo  A.  M.  My  impres- 
sions of  what  I  had  seen  of  Ireland  and  its  people  on  this 
quick  trip  to  Cork  were  very  favorable.  The  scenery  was 
beautiful  and  the  roads  that  I  saw  were  good.  Cork  is  a 
quaint  old  city,  surrounded  by  many  points  of  interest.  Its 
people  seem  happy,  good  natured,  vivacious,  and  with  the 
mother  brogue,  are  very  interesting  to  converse  with.  We 
took  aboard  quite  a  number  of  passengers,  nearly  all,  like 
myself,  going  to  America  to  seek  a  home  in  the  land  of  the 

free,  Where  a  man  is  a  man  and  is  willing  to  toil, 

To  earn  with  free  labor  the  fruits  of  the  soil. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  13 

I  became  well  acquainted  with  an  Irish  gentleman 
named  O'Brien,  who  embarked  at  Queenstown,  and  owing  to 
lack  of  room,  I  allowed  him  to  share  my  stateroom.  We  soon 
became  congenial  friends.  His  only  failing  was  drink.  He 
had  given  up  a  good  business  as  a  corn  merchant  at  Youghal 
and  was  desperately  in  love  with  a  pretty  Irish  girl  of  wealthy 
parents,  who  opposed  his  suit  on  account  of  difference  in 
religion.  This  opposition  drove  O'Brien  to  drink.  The 
parents  had  compelled  the  girl,  much  against  her  will,  to 
marry  a  young  physician  of  her  own  religion,  who  had  sailed 
for  America  with  his  unwilling  bride  about  a  month  previous. 
O'Brien,  heartbroken,  had  hastily  closed  out  his  business  and 
was  now  in  hot  pursuit.  The  poor  fellow  would  sit  down  and 
weep  like  a  child.  Naturally  my  heart  went  out  to  him  and 
while  his  lady  love  had  written  him  that  the  marriage  was 
against  her  will,  she,  like  a  sensible  girl,  had  advised  O'Brien 
to  give  her  up  for  the  present,  although  she  hoped  that  some 
day  she  might  be  his  legally  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  I 
advised  him  to  try  to  forget  her,  but  he  would  say,  "No,  I 
cannot.  She  is  and  shall  be  mine.  Life  is  blank  without  her." 
O'Brien  was  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman.  He  had  many  ac- 
complishments, was  a  natural-born  actor,  had  a  splendid  voice 
could  play  the  piano,  tell  a  good  story,  dance  a  jig,  preach 
a  sermon,  or  make  a  political  speech.  He  was  in  demand 
everywhere  and  cabin  and  deck  seemed  lonesome  without 
him.  When  not  in  our  cabin  sleeping  or  reading,  we  would  be 
on  deck  watching  or  participating  in  the  games  or  amusements. 
We  were  all  a  happy  family.  The  sea  was  mostly  calm  and 
our  ship,  though  slow,  was  making  what  was  for  her  a  good 
daily  record. 

On  the  seventh  day  out  from  Queenstown  a  sad  event 
occurred  on  the  ship,  casting  a  gloom  over  all,  including  the 
sailors.  A  steerage  passenger,  formerly  a  mail  carrier  from 
Birmingham,  England,  died  during  the  night  of  delirium 
tremens.  At  the  peep  of  day  many  sharks  were  seen  follow- 
ing in  the  wake  of  our  ship.  At  1 1  :oo  o'clock  A.  M.  the 
body  had  been  prepared  for  sea  burial.     Passengers,  officers 


14  Trails  of  Yesterday 

and  sailors  who  could  be  spared  from  duty  had  been  sum- 
moned on  deck  to  attend  the  burial  service,  which  was  per- 
formed by  the  captain.  The  body  had  been  placed  in  a  rude 
box  weighted  with  shot  or  coal  at  the  foot.  The  service  was 
very  impressive,  passengers,  officers  and  sailors  joining  in 
the  songs  "Rock  of  Ages,  Cleft  For  Me,"  "Jesus,  Lover  of 
My  Soul,"  and  other  well-known  hymns.  When  the  captain 
came  to  the  words,  "Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust,"  the  end  of 
the  plank  on  which  the  body  rested  was  gently  raised  and  the 
box  containing  all  that  was  mortal  of  the  poor  fellow  slid  off 
and  dropped  into  the  ocean,  only  to  be  torn  to  pieces  in  a 
second  by  the  school  of  hungry  sharks  following  us.  The  box 
had  scarcely  struck  the  water  when  it  was  smashed  to  splinters 
and  the  body  torn  limb  from  limb  and  the  flesh  into  shreds, 
leaving  a  trail  of  blood  as  far  as  we  could  see.  This  was  a  sad 
day  for  all  on  board.  It  left  a  depressing  effect  on  all  for 
several  days  and  on  some  until  we  reached  New  York.  Except 
for  this  sad  event  our  trip  across  the  Atlantic  would  have 
been  a  pleasant  one. 

On  nearing  the  Grand  Banks  of  Newfoundland  we  ran 
into  a  heavy  fog  and  nearly  struck  some  icebergs.  Our 
captain  used  every  precaution  by  going  slowly  and  using  the 
fog  horn  continuously.  Perhaps  the  only  thing  that  saved  us 
from  accident  and  probable  disaster  was  the  sudden  lifting 
of  the  fog,  when  the  ship's  engines  had  to  be  reversed  to 
avoid  striking  a  monster  berg  that  towered  over  our  ship  like 
a  huge  mountain. 

Well  do  I  remember  the  glad  cry,  "Land  Ahoy,"  as  we 
approached  the  American  Continent.  What  joy !  How  glad 
many  of  our  passengers  were — those  expecting  to  meet  friends, 
relatives  and  loved  ones.  For  me  it  was  somewhat  sad  news. 
I  had  made  some  nice  acquaintances.  We  were  a  great,  big, 
happy  family  about  to  separate,  perhaps  forever.  O'Brien 
was  glad  and  quite  impatient  to  get  ashore. 

Before  going  into  the  Narrows  the  pilot  and  Customs 
House  officers  were  taken  aboard.  These  gentlemen,  with 
their  square-toed  shoes,  were  Americans.     They  told  us  the 


Trails  of  Yesterday  15 

latest  war  news  from  a  Northern  view,  namely:  that  the 
Rebels,  as  they  termed  the  Southerners,  were  whipped  and 
all  ready  to  surrender. 

The  officers  and  seamen  of  the  ship  had  been  very  kind 
and  considerate  to  all  of  us  during  the  trip.  The  customary 
resolutions  had  been  drawn  up,  adopted  and  presented  with 
a  present  to  the  captain  and  chief  officers  of  the  Limerick. 
I  had  passed  through  the  ordeal  of  bidding  my  relatives  and 
friends  good-bye  on  leaving  England,  but  to  leave  and  say 
good-bye  to  my  newly  made  friends  on  the  "City  of  Limerick" 
was  almost  equally  as  hard.  No  doubt  the  thought  of  being 
a  stranger  in  a  strange  land  and  alone  except  for  O'Brien, 
whom  I  had  decided  to  help  in  every  way  possible,  made  me 
doubly  sad  when  I  bade  some  of  my  fellow  passengers  good- 
bye as  we  neared  the  landing  at  the  ship's  pier  in  New  York 
on  the  9th  day  of  July.  As  previously  stated,  I  had  brought 
but  little  baggage — the  same  with  O'Brien — so  the  Customs 
House  officers  were  soon  through  with  us.  A  long,  last  look 
at  the  old  ship  and  we  took  our  turn  marching  down  the 
gang  plank  and  were  soon  lost  in  the  stream  of  humanity 
surging  on  the  pier  in  New  York  City. 


CHAPTER  V 

Arrival  at  New   York — A   Search  for   O'Brien's  Katherine — Civil 
War — Westward  to  Chicago 

THE  happiest  and  most  anxious  man  to  leave  the  "City 
of  Limerick"  was  my  friend  O'Brien.  We  had  no 
sooner  registered  and  checked  our  baggage  in  one  of 
the  down-town  hotels  than  he  invited  me  to  accompany  him 
in  search  of  a  certain  number  at  Fifty-third  Street  with  a  view 
to  finding  his  old  sweetheart,  now  Mrs.  Katherine  Ragan. 
We  found  the  address  but  were  told  that  Dr.  and  Mrs.  iRagan 
had  left  there  about  ten  days  previous  for  parts  unknown. 
O'Brien  asked  question  after  question  about  them  but  gained 
little  or  no  information.  He  sat  down  on  the  curb  of  the 
walk  a  short  distance  from  the  house  and  cried  like  a  child. 
He  said  he  had  nothing  more  to  live  for  and  wished  he  could 
die.  I  did  all  I  could  to  encourage  and  brace  him  up.  On 
passing  the  first  saloon  he  left  me  abruptly,  saying  he  would 
be  out  in  a  moment.  After  a  short  time  I  went  in  and  found 
him  standing  by  the  bar  draining  the  contents  of  a  second 
glass  of  whiskey.  After  a  lot  of  persuasion  I  got  him  into 
the  street  but  had  not  gone  far  before  he  began  to  act  silly 
like  all  drunken  men.  Fearing  he  would  be  arrested,  I  called 
a  cab  and  took  him  to  the  hotel,  where  after  a  time  I  got  him 
to  sleep,  during  which  he  was  very  restless,  often  calling  the 
name,  "Katherine!  Katherine!" 

While  I  had  been  devoting  much  time  to  O'Brien  I  had 
not  been  unmindful  or  unobservant  of  the  new  scenes  that 
I  came  across  in  the  great  city  of  New  York;  its  crowded 
streets,  its  jam  of  traffic,  its  ever  busy,  rushing,  pushing  citizens 
full  of  energy,  not  only  in  the  streets  but  at  their  meals.  It 
was  not  an  uncommon  thing  to  see  them  finish  a  four  or  five- 
course  meal  while  we  ate  our  soup  and  fish.  Its  large,  beauti- 
ful stores  thronged  with  customers,  its  great  theaters  filled 
with  enthusiastic  audiences  nightly,  its  well-filled  churches 
and  lecture  halls  would  not  indicate  that  not  far  from  this 

16 


Trails  of  Yesterday  17 

great  city  civil  war  was  devastating  the  country.  The  only 
indication  of  this  was  the  "Extras"  issued  three  or  four  times 
a  day,  giving  the  latest  war  news  at  the  front,  and  now  and 
then  a  company  or  regiment  of  troops  either  going,  re- 
turning or  being  changed  to  different  localities.  I  was  offered 
$1500.00  for  ninety  days'  service  as  a  substitute — but,  no, 
I  could  not  accept  it.  That  promise  to  my  mother  barred 
that.  Every  issue  of  the  papers  was  full  of  war  news.  Yester- 
day Harrisburg  was  in  danger  of  being  captured  by  the 
Rebels — to-day  Washington — to-morrow  would  be  some  other 
place.  Such  is  war.  Rebel  and  Northern  spies  were  every- 
where. Copperheads,  as  the  Northern  people  called  the 
people  of  the  South  and  their  sympathizers,  were  thick;  and 
dozens,  sometimes  hundreds,  of  these  were  marched  off  to 
different  forts  to  be  kept  under  surveillance  or  shot.  Martial 
law  was  supreme.  All  were  afraid  to  talk  to  strangers,  and 
to  express  sympathy  for  a  band  of  sick,  emaciated  Southerners 
just  captured  at  the  front  and  being  sent  to  nearby  forts,  meant 
being  taken  along  also  by  the  provost  guard  without  any 
ceremony. 

I  was  doing  all  in  my  power  to  aid  and  brace  up  O'Brien, 
who  was  evidently  determined  to  drown  his  troubles  in 
liquor.  We  had  decided  to  seek  employment  of  some  kind  in 
New  York,  but  neither  could  find  what  he  wanted,  hence  we 
decided  to  go  to  Chicago.  I  had  sold  the  gold  I  brought  with 
me  at  the  highest  price  for  paper  money  called  "greenbacks" 
and  the  ten-cent  scrip,  better  known  as  "shin  plasters."  Prices 
for  everything  were  exceedingly  high,  but  then  I  received 
nearly  three  dollars  in  greenbacks  for  one  dollar  of  gold. 

After  making  another  fruitless  search  for  O'Brien's 
Katherine,  we  took  the  train  for  Chicago.  Our  train  just 
missed  being  captured  by  Colonel  Mosby's  cavalry  near 
Harrisburg.  Our  route  over  the  Allegheny  mountains  was 
interesting.  The  scenery  was  grand  and  impressed  me  with 
the  idea  that  Americans,  as  well  as  Englishmen,  knew  some- 
thing about  building  and  operating  a  railroad.  We  finally 
arrived  at  Chicago  in  safety  about  the  middle  of  August, 
1864. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Arrival   at   Chicago — A    Letter   from   Katherine — O'Brien  s   Hasty 

Departure 

AS  soon  as  we  arrived  in  Chicago,  after  securing  a 
boarding  place,  O'Brien  insisted  on  again  taking  up 
the  search  for  Katherine.  After  about  a  month's 
diligent  search,  with  no  result,  O'Brien  received  a  letter  from 
Ireland,  giving  the  information  that  Dr.  Ragan,  who  had 
married  Katherine,  had  gone  South  and  joined  a  certain 
Georgia  regiment  as  army  surgeon ;  that  he  had  taken  his  wife 
with  him;  and  that  she,  according  to  last  reports,  was  in 
Columbus,  Georgia,  while  the  doctor  was  supposed  to  have 
gone  to  the  front.  O'Brien  was  elated  at  this  information 
and  the  first  mail  out  of  Chicago  carried  a  letter  addressed 
to  "Mrs.  Dr.  (Katherine)  Ragan,"  Columbus,  Georgia. 
The  letter  was  brimful  of  sweetest  sentiment,  breathing 
eternal  love  and  devotion.  The  letter  did  not  return,  neither 
did  an  answer.  It  might  have  been  captured  and  destroyed 
or  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  censor.  Another  and  another 
equally  or  more  loving  than  the  first  followed. 

In  the  meantime  O'Brien  had  secured  a  situation  as  book- 
keeper in  one  of  the  packing  houses.  While  he  was  often 
discouraged  and  in  his  "cups,"  yet  I  would  talk  to  him  and 
brace  him  up.  I  believe  I  did  much  to  keep  him  from  going 
to  the  bad.  I  had  agreed  to  go  with  him  to  his  church 
(Catholic)  in  the  mornings  and  he  would  go  with  me  to  the 
Protestant  church  in  the  evenings  on  Sundays.  Like  myself, 
he  was  fond  of  music  and  enjoyed  the  singing.  We  roomed 
together  for  quite  a  while  at  a  nice  boarding  house  kept  by 
Mrs.  Dunham  on  Madison  street.  I  had  gone  into  business 
on  South  Water  street  and  was  doing  well. 

One  evening  in  the  latter  part  of  October  O'Brien  came 
running  into  the  room  with  a  letter  in  his  hand.  His  joy 
knew  no  bounds.    The  letter  was  from  his  long  lost  Katherine. 

18 


Trails  of  Yesterday  19 

It  was  dated  Columbus,  Georgia.  It  commenced,  "My  Dear 
John,"  and  went  on  to  state  that  he  probably  knew  that  her 
parents  had  insisted  on  her  breaking  her  engagement  with 
him  and  marrying  Dr.  Ragan,  who  shortly  after  their  arrival 
at  a  Southern  port,  had  joined  the  Confederate  army  and 
after  being  at  the  front  but  a  short  time  had  been  killed. 
She  wrote  that  at  present  she  was  dependent  on  friends,  had 
written  home  for  money,  expecting  when  she  received  it,  to 
return  to  her  home  in  Ireland,  but  that  before  going  she 
wished  he  would  come  to  her  and  that  she  was  still  ready 
and  willing  to  fulfil  the  vows  they  had  plighted  months  ago 
and  marry  the  only  man  she  ever  loved.  O'Brien  threw  him- 
self on  the  bed  and  wept  and  between  sobs  exclaimed,  "I  knew 
she  was  always  true  to  me."  Poor  O'Brien!  My  heart  went 
out  in  pity  for  him.  I  gave  him  all  the  consolation  I  could. 
We  sat  up  the  greater  part  of  the  night  planning  how  he 
could  get  to  Columbus,  Georgia,  for  which  place  he  had 
determined  to  leave  the  next  day,  and  he  did.  He  secured 
the  necessary  papers  from  the  British  Consul,  showing  that  he 
was  a  British  subject,  that  his  destination  was  Columbus, 
Georgia,  and  what  his  mission  was.  I  gave  him  needed  funds, 
accompanied  him  to  the  depot,  saw  him  safely  on  the  train  and 
bade  him  God-speed  and  a  safe,  quick  return.  Poor  O'Brien ! 
I  never  heard  from  him  afterwards,  although  I  made  many 
efforts  to  locate  him  and  his  Katherine.  Perhaps  he  was 
killed  in  crossing  the  lines.  If  not,  let  us  hope  he  found  his 
true,  loving  Katherine;  that  they  became  one  and  inseparable; 
and  that  their  lives  have  been  continued  sunshine  and  happi- 
ness.   This  is  the  fervent  wish  of  the  writer. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Life  in  Chicago — My  W edding  is  Planned  without  my  Knowledge — ■ 

Speculations  on  the  Chicago  Board  of   Trade — A    Wreck 

Investigation 

A  FTER  O'Brien's  departure  I  felt  sad.  While  relieved 
r\  of  the  constant  watch  I  had  had  to  keep  him  from  in- 
dulging too  freely  in  order  to  make  his  grief  easier  to 
bear,  yet  I  was  worried  to  think  there  would  be  no  one  to 
guide,  brace  and  cheer  him  on  his  perilous  trip  to  Columbus, 
Georgia,  which  he  thought  he  could  reach  overland.  I  had 
grave  doubts  about  his  getting  through  the  Northern  army 
lines  in  safety.  I  could  not  help  admiring  the  man  for  his 
nerve  and  his  devotion  to  Katherine,  for  the  whole  world 
loves  a  lover  like  O'Brien.  He  was  the  only  one  I  cared  to 
call  friend.  In  fact,  I  felt  as  though  I  had  lost  a  brother.  I 
had  made  some  business  acquaintances,  but  I  felt  lonesome 
and  watched  the  mail  closely  many  weeks,  hoping  I  would 
receive  some  tidings  of  him,  but  none  came. 

Chicago  was  full  of  Copperheads  or  sympathizers  of  the 
Southern  cause  and  there  were  as  many  or  more  Union  spies. 
Like  many  other  Northern  cities,  it  was  under  martial  law. 
At  our  boarding  house  there  were  some  twenty  gentlemen 
and  from  eight  to  twelve  ladies.  The  former  consisted  of 
lawyers,  doctors,  lake  captains,  bank  and  other  clerks.  Some 
of  the  ladies  were  the  wives  of  the  gentlemen,  others  were 
pursuing  studies  of  one  kind  or  another.  Still  others  had 
come  from  near  the  Mason  and  Dixon  line  in  order  to  be 
safer,  and  a  couple  were  holding  positions  in  large  dry  goods 
stores.  We  were  a  happy  family.  Our  landlord  and  landlady, 
assisted  by  a  charming  daughter  who  was  an  expert  at  the 
piano,  did  everything  to  make  life  pleasant  and  homelike. 
There  were  several  musicians  and  good  singers  among  the 
boarders.  O'Brien  had  a  splendid  voice  and  was  greatly 
missed  when  he  went  away.    It  was  an  extremely  dull  evening 

20 


Trails  of  Yesterday  21 

if  we  did  not  have  singing,  dancing,  music  or  games  of  some 
kind,  besides  discussing  the  latest  war  news. 

It  was  at  this  place  that  a  serious  joke  was  played  on  the 
writer  by  one  of  the  lake  captains.  There  was  a  neat,  comely, 
innocent  Swede  girl  called  "Tilly"  who  waited  on  our  table, 
and  I  would  occasionally  speak  to  her  when  arriving  late  for 
lunch.  I  would  sometimes  jokingly  remark,  "Now,  Tilly, 
bring  me  a  good  lunch  as  soon  as  possible  and  I  will  look 
out  for  a  good  husband  for  you."  Tilly  would  smile  and  a 
nice  lunch  would  soon  be  before  me.  It  was  not  long  before 
I  noticed  that  Tilly  would  serve  me  before  other  boarders 
and  pay  me  more  than  common  attention.  It  was  also  noticed 
by  some  of  the  other  boarders  and  I  was  inclined  to  think 
that  I  had  perhaps  made  a  mistake  in  making  so  free  in 
talking  with  her.  I  began  to  pay  little  or  no  attention  to  her 
outside  of  being  polite  and  civil,  but  this  did  not  check  her 
preference  for  serving  me  before  others.  One  day  I  noticed 
a  smile  play  over  a  certain  lake  captain's  face  when  he 
whispered  something  to  Tilly.  The  interest  of  Tilly  in  me 
grew  more  as  the  days  went  by  until  one  evening,  when  nearly 
ready  to  go  to  the  theater,  I  heard  a  knock  on  the  door  of  my 
room.  I  was  told  I  was  wanted  in  the  parlor,  which,  on  enter- 
ing, I  found  full  of  company,  among  them  strangers  I  had  not 
seen  before  and  to  whom  I  was  introduced  by  Captain  Blanch- 
ard.  Among  these  strangers  was  one  whom  the  captain 
called  Reverend  Wadsworth,  who  had  kindly,  so  the  captain 
stated,  agreed  to  perform  the  marriage  ceremony  for  me  and 
Miss  Tilly,  who  stood  there  all  fixed  up  very  prettily  and 
smiling  sweetly,  with  a  large  bouquet  of  roses  in  her  hands 
and  with  flowers  in  her  hair,  for  this,  to  her,  auspicious 
occasion.  Of  course,  this  had  all  been  gotten  up  unknown 
to  me.  The  Reverend  (  ?)  Wadsworth  explained  his  mission 
and  said  that  he  was  pleased  to  have  the  honor  of  uniting 
Miss  Tilly  and  me  in  the  holy  bonds  of  wedlock.  I  felt  like 
knocking  him  down  and  thrashing  some  others.  Looking 
around  for  my  friend,  the  captain,  I  found  he  was  not  there. 
I  asked  Miss  Tilly  who  had  encouraged  her  to  carry  out  this 


22  Trails  of  Yesterday 

deception.  She  stated  that  Captain  Blanchard  had  come  to 
her  about  a  month  ago;  had  told  her  I  was  anxious  to  marry 
her  and  that  he  had  given  her  money  to  purchase  her  wedding 
clothes;  that  although  she  thought  it  strange  I  had  said 
nothing  to  her  about  the  matter,  the  captain  assured  her 
that  I  was  in  earnest,  but  being  bashful,  had  delegated  the 
whole  thing  to  him.  Tilly  did  not  take  the  joke  as  seriously 
as  I  did.  The  affair  ended  by  a  theater  party  that  evening 
at  my  expense. 

I  had  become  a  member  of  the  Chicago  Board  of  Trade 
but  did  not  confine  my  operations  exclusively  to  articles  dealt 
in  by  that  body.  I  would  buy  and  sell  anything  I  saw  a 
margin  of  profit  in,  not  as  a  plunger  but  in  a  conservative 
manner.  The  market  on  staples,  such  as  wheat,  corn,  oats, 
high  wines,  provisions,  etc.,  had  been  almost  a  continual 
bull  market  and  it  was  almost  impossible  to  lose  money  on 
that  side  of  the  market.  Everything  pointed  to  the  defeat 
of  the  Southern  cause  and  I  trimmed  the  sails  of  my  little 
barque  accordingly.  I  had  cleaned  up  some  fifteen  thousand 
dollars  in  my  few  months'  operation  when  some  of  my  friends 
encouraged  me  to  buy  an  interest  in  a  vessel  known  as  the 
"Western  Metropolis,"  at  that  time  engaged  in  the  grain 
carrying  business  from  Chicago  to  Buffalo.  Unfortunately, 
shortly  before  Thanksgiving  Day  in  1864,  she  was  wrecked 
near  Pine  Station  on  the  Lake  some  twenty-two  miles  from 
Chicago.  The  cargo,  like  the  vessel,  was  partially  insured 
I  was  delegated  as  a  committee  of  one  to  visit  the  wreck  and 
report  on  it.  This  I  did,  or  tried  to  do.  Leaving  Chicago 
very  early  on  Thanksgiving  Day  I  got  the  conductor  of  the 
train  to  let  me  off  at  Pine  Station,  which  was  nothing  but  a 
siding  used  as  a  flag  station.  After  wandering  around  for 
some  time  I  came  across  a  young  man  who  offered  to  pilot  me 
to  the  wrecked  vessel,  which  I  found  some  three  miles  from 
the  siding,  lying  near  the  shore,  keel  in,  in  some  fifteen  to 
twenty  feet  of  water.  Though  the  keel  and  exposed  side  had 
not  been  damaged  greatly,  it  was  evident  from  the  wreckage 
strewn  along  the  shore  that  the  vessel  had  encountered  a  bad 


Trails  of  Yesterday  23 

storm  and  was  breaking  up.  With  the  assistance  of  the  young 
man,  who  was  anxious  to  accompany  me,  I  succeeded  in  getting 
the  top  of  the  cabin,  which  lay  on  the  beach,  afloat.  We  picked 
up  an  oar  and  were  soon  floating  from  shore  toward  the 
wreck  assisted  by  an  off  shore  breeze.  The  waves  beat  over 
our  little  craft  which  commenced  sinking.  The  young  man 
became  excited  when  the  water  came  up  to  our  knees.  I  told 
him  to  jump  and  pull  for  shore.  He  said  he  could  not  swim. 
We  were  then  in  over  six  feet  of  water  and  every  minute 
getting  deeper.  Something  had  to  be  done  and  done  quickly 
so  I  pushed  him  off  and  jumped  in  after  him.  He  fought 
me  hard  and  came  near  putting  me  under.  Luckily  I  had 
taken  off  my  overcoat  and  left  it  on  shore,  otherwise  I  think 
he  would  have  drowned  me.  I  finally  caught  him  by  the  tail 
of  his  coat  and  pulled  him  ashore,  where  he  started  on  a  brisk 
run  for  home,  I  suppose,  since  he  quickly  disappeared  in  the 
brush.  I  put  on  my  overcoat  and  walked  around  all  day, 
hoping  to  find  a  house,  but  I  did  not.  Several  trains  passed 
on  the  siding  headed  for  Chicago,  but  it  was  nearly  eleven 
o'clock  that  night  before  I  got  aboard  one.  I  was  still  in  my 
wet  clothes  when  I  arrived  in  Chicago,  the  result  being  that 
I  took  a  severe  cold,  pneumonia  set  in  and  for  over  a  month 
I  was  confined  to  my  room  under  the  care  of  two  doctors  and 
nurses.  It  was  some  two  weeks  before  the  doctors  gave  any 
encouragement  that  I  was  not  booked  for  that  unknown 
country  "from  whose  bourn  no  traveler  returns."  But  thanks 
to  the  doctors,  nurses,  my  landlady  (Mrs.  Dunham)  and  to 
that  good,  Christian,  ministering  angel,  Miss  Percy,  I  pulled 
through.  May  God  always  bless  and  reward  these  good 
people  for  their  kindness  to  me.  My  report  of  the  wreck  was 
not  only  delayed  but  was  not  a  very  complete  one  when  I 
made  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Strenuous  Times — Lee's  Surrender  to  Grant — Assassination  of 
President  Lincoln — /  Attend  Lincoln's  Funeral 

CHICAGO  was  a  hotbed  of  secession  and  many  ap- 
parently respectable  citizens,  both  men  and  women, 
some  innocent,  were  marched  off  to  the  provost  office 
to  give  an  account  of  their  actions  and,  if  guilty,  were  taken 
to  Camp  Douglas,  where  a  drum  head  court-martial  was 
constantly  in  session  passing  on  such  cases.  If  found  guilty, 
the  poor  fellow's  soul  would  be  before  his  Master  before 
sunset.  Spies,  both  Southern  and  Northern,  were  every- 
where. It  was  dangerous  to  express  ideas  of  the  progress 
of  the  war.  It  was  common  to  see  a  man  shot  down  on  the 
street.  The  greatest  orators  were  engaged  nightly  to  talk 
to  enthusiastic  audiences  in  the  halls,  theaters  and  churches, 
firing  the  hearts  and  passions  of  the  people,  advocating  the 
Union  cause  and  condemning  slavery.  Often  a  general  right 
from  the  front  would  be  persuaded  to  tell  how  "he  did  it." 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  a  fiery  talk  by  General 
"Fighting  Joe"  Hooker.  Bands  of  music  were  playing  war 
songs.  The  Lombard  Brothers  were  singing  them,  the  people 
joining  in  the  chorus.  All  were  worked  up  into  a  fever  heat. 
These  were  some  of  the  greatest  scenes  I  ever  witnessed. 
I  shall  never  forget  them.  The  war  governors  of  the  dif- 
ferent Northern  states  would  often  visit  Chicago.  That  great, 
noted,  loyal  citizen,  John  Wentworth,  with  his  burning 
eloquence,  could  set  an  audience  wild  if  he  only  stood  on 
his  feet.  He  was  over  six  feet  six  inches  tall  and  weighed 
nearly  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  Henry  Ward  Beecher 
and  many  other  noted  orators  of  the  Union's  cause  and  the 
condemnation  of  slavery,  always  drew  large  audiences.  Lee 
had  surrendered  to  Grant.  The  streets  were  a  blaze  of  light. 
Flags  were  flying  everywhere.  Crowds  of  people  on  the 
streets,  in  the  theaters  and  hotels,  were  shouting  themselves 

24 


Trails  of  Yesterday  25 

hoarse.  Bands  of  music  were  numerous  on  the  streets  and  one 
was  in  the  Tremont  Hotel  where  I  happened  to  be.  Cannon 
thundered  the  glad  tidings  from  the  garrison  at  Fort  Douglas 
and  from  the  Lake  Front. 

Yes,  it  was  victory  for  the  North,  but  what  of  the  poor 
South?  One-half  of  its  manhood  was  in  Southern  graves 
and  hospitals  or  in  Northern  prisons — its  women  and  children 
starving — homes  destroyed  and  farms  ruined.  These  sad 
thoughts  going  through  my  mind  made  me  sick  as  I  sat  or 
mingled  in  the  jostling  crowd  in  the  Tremont  Hotel.  The 
Tremont  Hotel  was  alive  with  people.  Men  in  different 
groups  were  discussing  the  end  of  the  war  and  the  future  of 
the  South.  Some  fiery,  hotheaded  politicians  wanted  to  wipe 
the  last  Rebel,  his  family  and  all  his  belongings  off  the  face 
of  the  earth ;  but  Lincoln — the  patriot,  the  friend  of  the  con- 
quered South — desirous  of  making  a  united  country  again  out 
of  the  fragments  remaining,  still  lived  and  victory  would  be 
tempered  with  mercy.  I  had  been  in  the  hotel  but  a  short 
time  when  word  was  flashed  over  the  wire  in  the  hotel  that 
President  Lincoln  had  been  assassinated.  I  jumped  up  from 
my  seat  and  joined  the  surging  mass  of  men.  Officers,  soldiers 
and  citizens  were  united  in  condemning  the  cowardly  act, 
and  yet  there  were  some  Copperheads  in  that  crowd  who 
were  glad  the  deed  was  done.  I  heard  one  so  express  him- 
self. He  made  the  remark  that  he  was  d — d  glad  of  it,  when 
an  army  officer,  a  colonel,  hearing  the  man's  remark,  drew  his 
revolver  and  sent  a  ball  between  the  man's  eyes.  The  man 
fell  dead  at  our  feet.  General  Sherman  truthfully  said  that 
"war  is  hell."  The  Southern  people  as  a  whole  condemned 
this  assassination  as  bitterly  as  the  Northern  people.  They 
knew  that  in  Lincoln's  death  they  had  lost  their  best  friend. 
What  a  change  the  next  dayl  Flags  half  mast  everywhere — 
stores,  business  houses  and  residences  all  draped  in  black! 
In  halls  and  churches  the  following  Sunday  thousands  con- 
gregated and  listened  to  eloquent  speakers  and  ministers  who 
condemned  the  dastardly  murder  of  the  noble  Lincoln.  Grief 
and  sadness  were  on  every  face.    Even  the  would-be  Copper- 


26  Trails  of  Yesterday 

head  had  discovered  he  had  lost  a  true  friend  in  Lincoln. 
This  manifestation  of  grief  continued  until  the  remains  ar- 
rived in  Chicago  where  the  body  lay  in  state.  Thousands 
viewed  it  before  being  taken  to  Springfield,  to  which  place, 
as  a  member  of  the  Chicago  Board  of  Trade,  I  accompanied 
it.  I  remember  paying  $175.00  for  a  suit  of  clothes  to  wear 
on  this  sad  occasion.  I  could  fill  many  pages  should  I  attempt 
to  chronicle  one-tenth  of  what  I  saw  and  heard  during  these 
dark  days  of  American  history. 


a, 


CO 


^ 


CHAPTER  IX 

Nothing  Ventured,  Nothing  Gained — A  Terrific  Storm  at  Sea — My 

Small  Fortune  Cast  upon  the  Waters — Heavy  Hearted  but 

Willing  to  Begin  Again 

WHILE  I  had  been  doing  very  well  in  Chicago, 
nearing  the  fall  of  1865  I  learned  from  what  I 
considered  a  reliable  source  that  a  certain  line  of 
merchandise  was  in  great  demand  in  New  Orleans.  Acting  on 
this  information  I  closed  up  my  business  in  Chicago  and  after 
securing  letters  of  introduction  and  recommendations  to  some 
business  firms  in  New  York  and  New  Orleans,  I  started,  for 
the  former  city,  where  I  purchased  my  goods  and  on  Saturday 
in  the  latter  part  of  October,  I  embarked  with  them  on  the 
steamship  "Victor"  bound  for  New  Orleans.  Many  of  my 
goods  arrived  on  board  late,  where  I  stored  them  on  deck  and 
covered  them  with  tarpaulins  and  tied  them  down  with  ropes 
fastened  to  iron  rings  in  the  deck.  While  heaving  anchor  and 
feeling  our  way  through  the  many  vessels,  preparatory  to  our 
course  down  the  river,  I  noticed  the  freight  hatchways  were 
being  well  calked  and  things  placed  in  quick  readiness  for  a 
rough  voyage,  it  being  October,  when  sometimes  equinoctial 
storms  get  busy  and  cause  more  or  less  anxiety  to  those  who 
go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships.  Though  quite  a  few  of  the  some 
two  hundred  passengers  became  seasick  during  Saturday  and 
Sunday,  on  the  whole  we  were  a  happy  family  on  such  a  short 
acquaintance  until  Monday  night  when  we  were  rounding 
Cape  Hatteras.  A  monster  black  cloud  commenced  to  show 
itself  on  the  horizon.  This  finally  lost  itself  in  fog,  rain  and 
wind  which  for  a  time  came  in  great  gusts,  the  rain  falling 
in  sheets.  The  darkness  was  intense  except  for  the  continual 
flashes  of  lightning.  The  increasing  wind  was  whipping  the 
sea  into  huge  waves  which  dashed  against  the  sides  and  over 
our  ship  without  mercy.  There  was  one  young  man  who, 
more  forcible  than  polite,  had  expressed  a  wish  to  run  into 

27 


28  Trails  of  Yesterday 

a  storm.  His  every  word  was  accompanied  by  an  oath  and 
he  hoped  we  would  see  a  d — d  good  storm. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  P.  M.  I  was  the  only  one  left 
of  a  number  of  passengers  who  had  been  entertaining  each 
other  in  the  smoking  room,  which  was  located  amidships  on 
the  deck  of  the  "Victor."  I  lay  communing  with  my  thoughts, 
thinking  of  the  dear  ones  at  home.  All  my  earthly  posses- 
sions were  aboard  this  ship  with  not  one  dollar's  worth  of 
insurance  on  them — just  one  thin  plank  between  me  and  the 
bottom  of  the  sea.  I  did  not  know  one  soul  on  board,  neither 
had  I  any  friends  or  relatives  in  New  Orleans,  should  I  get 
there,  and  I  must  confess  that  I  felt  blue  but  not  entirely  dis- 
couraged or  forsaken.  I  knew  that  the  same  God  who  had 
watched  over  me  and  cared  for  me  always  would  not  forsake 
me.  While  occupied  with  these  thoughts,  I  was  suddenly 
pushed  off  the  top  of  the  table  where  I  lay  and  thrown  against 
the  opposite  door,  which  was  burst  open  by  the  force  of  a 
wave  which  nearly  washed  me  overboard.  For  a  time  I  was 
nearly  strangled  by  the  salt  water.  As  soon  as  I  could  gather 
myself  together  I  groped  my  way  to  the  hatchway  of  the  cabin, 
which  I  finally  found,  concluding  it  to  be  a  safer  place  than 
on  that  smoking  room  table.  I  finally  tumbled  into  my  berth 
but  not  to  sleep. 

By  this  time  the  wind  was  blowing  a  hurricane.  The 
lightning  was  terrific  and  the  thunder  almost  deafening.  The 
sea  at  times  would  dash  against  the  sides  and  over  our  ship 
with  such  force  that  every  timber  in  her  would  shake  like  a 
leaf,  the  rain  still  coming  down  in  torrents.  At  intervals  the 
ship  would  be  thrown  with  such  violent  force  into  the  trough 
of  the  sea  that  it  made  us  at  times  think  we  had  been  sent  to 
the  bottom,  when  there  would  come  the  sensation  of  rising 
with  the  crest  of  the  waves  to  be  again  hurled  to  the  bottom, 
making  every  beam  in  the  ship  tremble  and  quiver.  What  a 
night  we  spent!  Some  passengers  weeping,  some  praying. 
The  first  sincere  prayer  offered  up  was  by  our  young  man 
who  early  in  the  evening  had  said  he  would  like  to  see  a  d — d 
good  storm.     He  was  seeing  and  feeling  it.     I  had  made  my 


Trails  of  Yesterday  29 

peace  with  God  and  was  reconciled  to  the  worst  that  might 
befall  us.  Daylight  on  Tuesday  morning  came,  but  with  it  no 
let  up  in  the  fury  of  the  storm.  The  deck  over  our  heads  had 
commenced  to  open  through  the  center,  and  at  intervals  of 
every  few  minutes,  when  the  waves  would  dash  over  our 
vessel,  the  sea  water  would  pour  through  this  opening  so  the 
passengers  were  saturated  with  salt  water.  During  the  day 
the  partitions  between  the  steerage  and  cabin  passengers  were 
torn  loose  and  the  freight  commenced  to  shift  with  the  motion 
of  the  vessel.  Barrels  of  beef,  lard,  whiskey  and  boxes  of 
merchandise  were  pitched  and  tossed  around  like  chips  and 
in  order  to  be  safe,  passengers  had  to  remain  in  their  berths, 
where  they  stayed  with  some  difficulty.  Not  one  officer  or 
any  of  the  ship's  crew  had  yet  visited  us,  and  we  began  to 
think  we  were  abandoned  to  our  fate.  Sometime  late  Tues- 
day afternoon,  for  the  purpose  of  getting  a  breath  of  fresh 
air,  unknown  to  any  of  my  fellow  passengers,  I  had  ascended 
the  stairs  leading  to  the  deck  where  I  soon  pushed  back  the 
slide  window  under  the  skylight  and  found  myself  gazing 
on  an  awful  scene.  The  rain  was  still  falling.  The  clouds 
were  black  and  rolling  swiftly  by  and  over  us.  The  hurricane 
was  still  blowing  and  lashing  the  sea  into  huge  waves  of  misty 
foam  that  dashed  madly  over  our  ship,  evidently  bent  on 
smashing  her  to  pieces  and  sending  us  to  the  bottom.  Now 
and  again  the  waves  would  sweep  over  our  vessel  from  stem 
to  stern,  now  riding  the  crest  of  a  monster  wave,  then  dashed 
with  lightning  rapidity  into  the  trough  of  the  sea  with  such 
force  at  times  that  it  made  us  think  we  had  been  sent  to  the 
bed  of  the  ocean  never  to  rise  again.  The  sight  and  feeling 
of  this  haunts  me  still.  I  had  been  cautiously  working  the 
sliding  window  backwards  and  forward,  dodging  approach- 
ing waves  as  they  struck  the  bow  of  the  ship,  for  some  time, 
when  I  saw  a  monster  wave  coming  towards  me  like  an 
avalanche.  The  sight  was  grand,  majestic  and  inspiring! 
I  could  not  move  when  I  came  to  my  senses.  I  found  several 
fellow  passengers  bending  over  me.  I  had  been  forced  down 
the  stairs  by  a  deluge  of  water  from  that  wave.     My  arm, 


30  Trails  of  Yesterday 

shoulder  and  side  were  badly  bruised  in  the  fall  and  my  fellow 
passengers  gave  me  a  severe  scolding  for  attempting  such  a 
fool  thing.  It  was  estimated  that  nearly  one  thousand  gallons 
of  water  had  forced  and  accompanied  me  down  the  stairs. 

Tuesday  night  was  a  miserable  one  for  every  soul  aboard. 
My  injuries  were  painful.  Every  hour  in  the  black  darkness 
seemed  a  day.  Men,  women  and  children  were  at  times 
wrenched  loose  from  their  tight  grips  and  thrown  against  the 
berths,  barrels  and  boxes,  some  weeping,  some  praying,  others 
crying  from  injuries  received  from  shifting  freight  by  con- 
tinual rolling  and  pitching  of  the  vessel,  and  shifting  of 
broken  timbers  and  partitions.  There  were  twelve  to  fifteen 
inches  of  black,  dirty,  polluted  sea  water  on  a  level  in  the 
cabins  and  every  time  the  vessel  would  roll  or  pitch,  this  water 
followed  it  and  not  only  drenched  us  from  head  to  foot  but 
at  times  nearly  strangled  us.  All  were  hungry  and  famishing 
for  a  drink  of  pure  water.  Talk  about  the  Black  Hole  of 
Calcutta !  Could  it  be  worse  than  this?  To  add  to  our  ter- 
rors the  force  of  the  wave  which  struck  our  vessel  amidships 
on  Wednesday  night  smashed  down  every  berth  in  the  ship. 
Some  passengers  were  caught  in  their  berths  and  pinioned 
down  by  falling  timbers  and  cried  pitifully  to  be  extricated. 
Some  were  screaming,  weeping,  praying,  others  moaning  and 
a  few,  who  had  given  up  the  fight  for  life,  remained  quiet. 
Words  cannot  paint  this  sad  picture.  To  add  to  our  fears 
and  unbearable  misery,  some  one  later  in  the  night  cried, 
"Fire !  Fire !  Fire !"  In  an  instant  some  of  the  stronger  men 
without  families  were  climbing  over  everything  and  every- 
body in  eager  haste  to  get  to  the  stairs  and  out  on  deck. 
Luckily,  the  first  mate,  who  stood  lashed  to  the  capstan  near 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  told  the  leaders  there  was  no  fire  and 
to  go  below  quickly  or  they  would  be  washed  overboard. 
What  a  night  this  was!  I,  and  others  there,  will  never 
forget  it. 

Daylight,  Thursday  morning,  began  to  peep  through  the 
open  seam  in  the  deck,  which  was  now  widened  to  about  six 
inches,  through  which  kept  pouring  a  stream  of  salt  water 


Trails  of  Yesterday  31 

whenever  the  ship  would  roll  or  pitch,  thus  increasing  that 
which  was  already  in  our  cabins.  Shortly  after  daylight  three 
of  the  ship's  crew  came  down  to  us,  but  brought  neither  water 
nor  food,  and  gave  us  no  encouragement  as  to  what  would  be 
our  fate.  They  did  condescend  to  release  with  ax  and  saw 
one  poor  fellow  wedged  in  between  two  berths.  We  had  tried 
to  extricate  him  but  in  vain.  The  poor  fellow  was  fatally  in- 
jured internally.  These  three  of  the  crew,  in  answer  to  our 
inquiries,  told  us  that  the  ship  was  leaking,  the  boilers  were 
adrift,  the  rudder  chains  broken  and  that  we  might  as  well 
prepare  for  the  worst.  They  said  we  were  somewhere  in  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico  and  on  the  line  where  some  northern  bound 
vessel  might  pick  us  up.  They  told  us  the  rain  had  ceased, 
the  wind  was  not  so  strong  nor  the  sea  so  rough  and  if  these 
favorable  things  continued  we  might  be  picked  up  yet  if  the 
vessel  could  be  kept  afloat.  With  these  words  of  consolation 
they  left  us  to  our  fate,  admitting  their  inability  to  splice  the 
broken  rudder  chain  which  they  came  down  to  fix. 

The  stench  of  our  quarters  was  sickening.  I  had  fully 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  rather  be  washed  overboard 
than  suffocate  in  that  dreadful  hole,  with  women  and  chil- 
dren and  some  men  begging  and  crying  for  something  to  eat 
and  drink.  We  had  had  nothing  since  Monday  night.  I 
called  for  volunteers  to  assist  me  in  getting  food  and  water, 
if  possible,  for  our  fellow  passengers,  especially  the  women 
and  children.  Two  Americans  and  a  German  responded  and 
offered  to  go  with  me.  We  ascended  the  stairway  and 
climbed  on  deck  through  the  scullery  hole.  The  sun  was  try- 
ing to  peep  out.  The  wind  had  ceased  and  the  sea  was  grow- 
ing calmer  but  at  intervals  of  a  few  minutes  a  wave  would 
break  over  the  vessel,  compelling  us  to  hold  on  to  ropes  or 
bullrings  in  the  deck  to  prevent  being  washed  overboard.  The 
deck  of  the  "Victor"  presented  a  fearful  sight.  One  mast 
was  left  standing  at  an  angle  of  about  sixty  degrees  but  split 
over  half  way  up.  The  gaffs  and  spencers  and  much  of  the 
canvas  and  rigging  had  been  carried  away.  The  smoke  and 
cook  houses,  water  barrels,  and  apparently  everything  mov- 


32  Trails  of  Yesterday 

able  on  the  deck,  including  my  freight  that  had  been  so 
securely  wrapped  and  tied  down,  had  also  disappeared.    The 
bulwarks  of  either  side  of  the  deck  had  been  tied  with  heavy 
ropes  in  order  to  prevent  the  further  opening  of  the  seam  in 
the    deck.      While    contemplating    this    destruction    I    was 
startled  by  a  voice  yelling,   "Hold  fast  there  or  you'll  be 
washed  overboard !"    I  was  hanging  on  to  a  large  ring  in  the 
deck  when  I  was  suddenly  swung  aside  and  buried   for  a 
time  by  a  large  body  of  water,  which  partially  suffocated 
me  and  others.       Thank  God,  though  salty,  the  water  was 
fresh  and  invigorating  and  made  me  feel  like  a  new  man. 
My  companions  had  held  on  to  some  guy  ropes  and  came 
out  of  their  salt  water  bath  better  and  cleaner,  like  myself, 
than  when  they  went  into  it.     After  some  time  spent  in 
dodging  passing  waves,  we  finally  reached  the  scullery  hole 
where  the  ship's  steward  kept  the  food.    We  could  not  find 
him.     Some  one  told  us  he  had  been  washed  overboard.    We 
found  some  crackers  and  raw  ham,  all  more  or  less  soaked 
with  salt  water.     These  after  a  time  we  got  down  to  our 
fellow  passengers,  who  grabbed  and  ate  them  like  a  pack 
of  hungry  wolves.    Oh,  for  a  drink  of  pure  water !     "Water, 
water  everywhere,  but  not  a  drop  to  drink!"     We  (the  two 
Americans,  the  German  and  two  other  passengers  apparently 
Southerners)   returned  on  deck.     We  found  Captain  Gates, 
like  some  of  his  officers  and  nearly  all  of  the  crew,  drunk. 
We  found  the  ship's  surgeon  and  finally  persuaded  him  to 
go  below  and  try  to  do  something  for  the  injured  passenger 
and  those  who  were  sick.    The  crew  was  busy  in  its  maudlin 
way,  throwing  freight  overboard.     When  they  came  to  a 
basket  of  wine  or  barrel  of  whiskey  they  would  break  the 
necks    off    some    of    the    bottles    and    knock    the    head    of 
the  barrel   in  and  after  drinking  what  they  could,   would 
heave    the    rest    overboard    with      a    long,    wistful    look. 
The  captain  was  extremely  profane  and  reeled  as  he  walked. 
I  do  not  see  how  he  and  others  of  his  crew  escaped  going 
overboard.     I  heard  the  captain  call  over  the  railing  to  Chief 
Engineer  Marcus  and  inquire  what  show  there  was  to  start 


Trails  of  Yesterday  33 

the  pumps,  and  what  was  the  condition  of  things  in  the  fur- 
nace room.  The  engineer  answered  that  he  was  trying  his 
best  to  fix  the  pumps  and  could  get  them  started  if  he  had 
men  to  work  them;  that  the  ship  was  leaking;  that  the 
boilers  were  adrift  and  moved  with  every  motion  of  the  ship ; 
and  that  the  water  was  up  to  the  fire  holes.  At  this  news  the 
captain  threw  up  his  hands  and  exclaimed  excitedly,  "My 
God!  My  God!  We  are  lost!"  and  immediately  gave 
orders  to  the  second  mate,  who  was  about  the  only  sober 
officer  on  the  vessel,  to  prepare  to  launch  the  boats.  I  ten- 
dered my  services,  as  also  did  my  companions,  but  the  captain 
answered  excitedly  that  it  was  every  man  for  himself  and 
yelled  the  order,  "Launch  the  boats."  Not  an  officer  or 
sailor  obeyed  the  order.  There  were  only  five  boats,  includ- 
ing the  captain's  gig,  not  enough  to  carry  all  the  passengers, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  crew,  the  majority  of  whom  by  this 
time  were  so  dead  drunk  they  were  oblivious  to  danger. 
The  men  ignored  all  the  captain's  orders  and  some  told  him 
to  launch  the  boats  himself.  The  second  mate  set  us  to  work 
making  boat  pegs,  etc.,  and  while  getting  the  boats  ready, 
told  the  captain  that  the  boats  would  be  dashed  to  pieces 
before  they  could  clear  the  ship.  Such  was  the  impression 
of  all  sober,  intelligent  people  on  board.  Even  the  drunken 
sailors  expressed  a  determination  to  stay  by  the  ship  as  long 
as  she  could  float.  Hawsers  had  been  stretched  across  the 
deck  to  prevent  further  opening  and  to  hold  the  ship  to- 
gether. Had  this  not  been  done  the  ship  would  have  been 
split  in  two  with  the  pressure  of  the  two  thirty-ton  boilers  and 
coal  in  the  bunkers  sweeping  from  side  to  side  and  pitching 
endwise  with  every  motion  of  the  vessel. 

When  the  captain  gave  orders  to  launch  the  boats,  ending 
with  the  remark,  "It's  every  man  for  himself,"  many  of 
the  passengers  who  had  followed  us  on  deck  commenced  to 
seize  life  preservers.  I  remember  one  especially,  a  minister 
of  the  Gospel  from  the  state  of  Mississippi,  who  put  on 
several,  including  one  on  each  leg.  If  I  should  ever  be 
called  upon  to  paint  or  describe  a  picture  of  despair,  I  would 


34  Trails  of  Yesterday 

have  this  reverend  gentleman  in  my  mind's  eye.  He  appealed 
to  me  pitifully  to  go  down  in  the  hold  of  the  ship  and  get 
some  valuable  papers  out  of  a  trunk  he  had  there.  I  respect- 
fully declined,  although  he  offered  me  big  pay.  I  had  lost 
everything  except  one  leather  trunk  in  which  I  had  some 
papers,  bills  of  the  merchandise  I  had  purchased,  some  rec- 
ommendations, letters  of  introduction,  and  the  suit  of 
clothes  for  which  I  paid  $175.00  to  wear  at  President  Lin- 
coln's funeral.  I  had  made  my  peace  with  God  and  was  not 
afraid  to  die.  But  that  poor  minister — I  pitied  him.  I  did 
not  even  put  on  a  life  preserver.  I  felt  that  if  I  had  to  go 
a  life  preserver  would  not  save  me. 

Some  time  about  noon  the  chief  engineer  signalled  that  he 
had  the  pumps  fixed  and  ready  for  work  but  no  sailors  to  man 
them.  I  told  the  captain  I  could  pick  out  sixteen  passengers 
and  I  would  agree  to  keep  those  pumps  going  every  moment 
if  necessary.  He  told  me  to  select  the  men  and  keep  the 
pumps  working  and  that  I  could  promise  the  men  I  hired 
$5.00  per  hour  for  every  hour  they  worked  the  pumps  and 
that  I  would  receive  double  that  amount  for  my  services.  In 
less  than  twenty  minutes  I  had  the  men  and  the  pumps  going 
at  full  speed.  It  was  anything  but  a  desirable  place  down  in 
the  hold  of  that  ship,  standing  in  over  two  feet  of  black  water 
covered  with  a  heavy  coat  of  oil  when  the  ship  was  still,  but 
when  rocking  or  pitching  the  water  sometimes  went  over 
our  heads,  nearly  blinding  and  suffocating  us.  The  coal  in 
the  bunkers,  like  the  boilers,  moved  with  every  motion  of  the 
ship.  Most  of  the  sailors  were  still  occupied  with  throwing 
freight  overboard  except  when  it  came  to  liquor,  when  they 
would  save  what  they  could  of  that  by  drinking  it. 

One  happy  sailor,  tired  of  his  duties,  sat  down  in  the 
corner  between  the  ship's  sides  and  the  coal  bunkers  and 
sang,  "By  the  soft  silver  light  of  the  moon."  At  times  he 
would  have  difficulty  in  finishing  a  verse  and  even  a  line  on 
account  of  the  pitching  and  rolling  of  the  vessel  that  sent 
the  black,  inky  coal  dust  and  oily  water  into  his  mouth,  ears, 
nose  and  eyes.     This  would  often  choke  him  for  a  time  but 


Trails  of  Yesterday  35 

we  could  always  depend  on  his  finishing  the  line  or  verse 
after  ridding  himself  of  the  inky  and  oily  water.  Such  a 
comical  scene,  may  have  tended  to  lighten  the  terrors  of  the 
dismal  hole  in  which  we  were  working  the  pumps.  It  was 
not  the  dirty  water  in  the  hold  alone  that  continued  to  satu- 
rate us  with  every  movement  of  the  vessel,  but  it  was  also  the 
sea  water,  which,  though  salty,  was  clean,  that  poured  down 
on  our  heads  from  twenty  feet  above  us,  that  we  had  to 
contend  with.  It  was  now  Thursday  afternoon.  We  had 
gained  on  the  water  a  little.  The  second  mate,  holding  a 
signal  of  distress,  had  lashed  himself  to  the  only  mast 
standing. 

Friday  morning  dawned.  The  sun  came  out  bright.  The 
sea  was  much  calmer.  We  had  lowered  the  water  nearly  two 
inches  since  starting  the  pumps.  I  was  working  the  men  in 
eight-hour  spells.  While  I  felt  weak  from  lack  of  food  and 
thought  I  would  have  to  give  up,  yet  the  thought  of  saving 
our  lives  until  some  friendly  vessel  would  pick  us  up  gave 
me  and  a  few  others  courage  to  continue  the  struggle. 

About  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  our  mate  on  the  look- 
out called  out,  "Ship  Ahoy."  Some  of  my  pumpers  left  their 
positions  and  climbed  on  deck  to  see  the  ship  but  it  could  not 
be  seen  with  the  naked  eye  and  it  did  not  see  us.  Some 
wreckage  floated  by  us — one  piece  of  a  vessel  indicated  that  it 
was  what  was  left  of  the  "Jesse  Reeves."  The  warm  water 
and  current  told  us  we  were  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and  in  the 
route  of  northern  bound  vessels.  Even  the  drunken  sailors 
began  to  show  themselves  when  they  heard  the  glad  words, 
"Ship  Ahoy."  They  had  defied  the  captain's  commands  to 
launch  the  boats,  declaring  they  would  stay  by  the  "Victor" 
until  it  went  down.  The  captain  was  much  put  out  at  this 
defiance  of  his  authority  and  threatened  to  shoot  some  of  the 
sailors  on  sight.  About  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the 
man  at  the  mast  shouted  again  "Ship  Ahoy."  It  was  nearly 
an  hour  later  before  it  could  be  seen  from  the  deck  with  the 
naked  eye.  It  finally  saw  us  and  steered  toward  us.  Oh, 
the  relief  from  the  long  suspense  !    The  joy  of  being  rescued  ! 


36  Trails  of  Yesterday 

Passengers,  captain,  officers  and  sailors  all  shouted  and 
cheered  as  the  merchantman  hove  near  us.  The  vessel  turned 
out  to  be  the  "Alabama" — not  the  pirate,  but  one  bearing 
the  same  name,  loaded  with  cotton  from  New  Orleans  to 
New  York.  Our  captain,  who  was  getting  a  little  sober, 
asked  the  captain  of  the  "Alabama"  where  we  were.  This 
answered,  our  captain  offered  the  captain  of  the  "Alabama" 
$35,000.00  to  tow  us  into  the  nearest  port,  which  was  For- 
tress Monroe.  The  offer  was  accepted  and  before  dark  many 
of  the  "Victor's"  passengers  had  been  transferred.  The 
captain,  officers,  crew,  and  what  passengers  there  were  on 
the  "Alabama"  treated  us  with  the  greatest  kindness,  giving 
us  food,  water  and  some  change  of  clothing.  It  was  hard 
to  tell  whether  we,  who  had  been  working  the  pumps  in  that 
frightful  hole,  were  colored  or  white  men,  and  no  wonder. 
A  few  people  on  the  "Alabama"  did  not  warm  up  to  us  as 
they  did  to  the  other  passengers  until  they  found  out  what  we 
had  done.  In  short,  we  had  saved  the  "Victor"  from  going 
to  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Captain  Gates  admitted  this  and 
in  giving  me  the  order  on  Livingstone  &  Fox,  the  agents  of 
the  "Victor"  in  New  York,  for  payment  of  the  men  and 
myself,  he  was  profuse  in  his  thanks  for  what  we  had  done. 

It  was  but  a  short  trip  from  Fortress  Monroe  to  New 
York,  and  on  presenting  the  captain's  order  to  the  agents 
they  declined  to  honor  it,  giving  the  excuse  that  in  doing 
what  we  had  we  had  only  tried  to  save  our  own  lives  and 
property.  For  a  time  it  looked  as  though  we  would  be  kicked 
out  of  the  office  or  put  in  jail.  I  told  them  that  for  my  own 
part  I  did  not  care  whether  they  paid  me  or  not,  but  that 
I  should  insist  on  the  sixteen  men  being  paid  the  amount 
stated  in  the  order.  I  told  the  agents  they  could  think  the 
matter  over  and  that  we  would  call  on  them  at  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  which  we  did.  The  agents  still  thought  we 
were  not  entitled  to  the  pay,  when  I  plainly  told  Mr.  Living- 
stone that  it  was  true  we  were  saving  our  lives  and  property  in 
working  those  pumps,  that  we  possibly  saved  the  ship  also, 
that  the  captain  and  nearly  all  the  crew  were  drunk,  and  that 


Trails  of  Yesterday  37 

if  the  order  were  not  paid  by  noon  I  would,  if  possible, 
prevent  them  from  getting  one  dollar's  worth  of  insurance. 
This  plain  language  set  them  to  thinking  and  thinking  hard, 
for  before  noon  they  had  called  me  into  their  private  office, 
and  the  amount  due  each  man  was  paid  him  and  his  passage 
money  refunded  or  he  was  given  another  pass  on  their  next 
steamer.  I  was  treated  with  the  greatest  consideration,  the 
amount  due  me  was  paid  cheerfully  and  I  was  offered  a  first- 
class  cabin  passage  in  the  next  steamer  leaving  for  New 
Orleans.  This  latter  I  declined.  This  company's  best 
steamer,  the  "Atlanta,"  had  been  wrecked  in  a  gale  on  its 
passage  to  New  Orleans  a  few  weeks  before  and  over  one 
hundred  passengers  had  been  drowned  on  account  of  lack  of 
boats. 

I  remained  in  New  York  a  short  time  resting  from  the 
terrible  ordeal  I  had  passed  through.  Remember,  dear 
reader,  I  had  lost  nearly  every  dollar  I  had  in  the  world.  I 
had  not  insured  my  goods  as  I  ought  to  have  done.  I  thought 
if  I  got  through  safely  the  goods  would  also.  But  no  matter. 
I  was  young,  unencumbered  and  willing  to  try  again.  I  had 
escaped  with  my  life  and  I  felt  confident  that  I  would  win  in 
the  end,  if  grit,  energy,  honesty  and  perseverance  would  bring 
me  success.  I  could  have  received  assistance  from  home  or 
possibly  from  friends  in  Chicago  had  I  appealed  to  either,  but 
I  would  not.  I  determined  to  make  the  trip  to  New  Orleans 
and  if  possible  recuperate  my  lost,  little  fortune. 


CHAPTER  X 

Re-embark  for  New  Orleans — Homeless,  Starving  and  no  Work — 
War  Prices — Employment  at  Last 

IT  was  near  the  20th  of  November,  1865,  when  I  stepped 
aboard  the  "Morning  Star"  destined  for  New  Orleans. 

My  belongings  consisted  of  the  leather  trunk  containing 
the  suit  of  clothes  worn  at  President  Lincoln's  funeral,  a  few 
other  things,  a  few  letters  of  introduction  and  recommenda- 
tions, all  more  or  less  water  logged,  a  silk  umbrella  and  a  plug 
hat.  I  had  a  few  dollars  left  after  paying  my  passage  money. 
I  tried  to  make  some  plans  for  the  future  but  had  nothing  to 
build  on  but  hope. 

After  an  uneventful  trip  I  arrived  at  New  Orleans.  The 
ravages  and  effects  of  civil  war  were  plainly  seen  in  every  part 
of  the  Crescent  City.  Hundreds  of  discharged  soldiers  from 
both  armies  were  drifting  into  the  city  daily.  I  saw  some 
business  chances  if  I  only  had  had  the  money  to  take  advan- 
tage of  them.  I  visited  many  of  the  stores  and  business  houses, 
seeking  employment,  but  failed  to  secure  it.  A  few  inquired 
if  I  had  been  in  the  Southern  army.  When  I  answered  "no," 
I  was  quickly  told  they  could  not  help  me. 

I  was  rooming  and  boarding  at  a  house  on  Tchoupitoulas 
street  kept  by  a  widow  lady,  who  reminded  me  kindly  one 
morning  that  my  board  and  room  rent  was  due.  I  gave  her  all 
the  money  I  had  and  my  silk  umbrella,  requested  permission 
to  leave  my  leather  trunk  with  her  and  stepped  out  into  the 
cold,  cruel  world.  That  day  and  other  succeeding  ones  I 
went  from  place  to  place  trying  to  secure  employment,  yes, 
and  something  to  satisfy  hunger,  but  I  met  with  no  success  as 
to  getting  employment  and  with  but  little  encouragement  in 
getting  something  to  eat.  I  was  ashamed  to  beg  and  would 
not  steal.  I  was  willing  to  work  for  my  board,  but  this  was 
denied  me.  Starvation  stared  me  in  the  face.  I  slept 
wherever   I   could,   sometimes  on  or  between  the  bales  of 

38 


Trails  of  Yesterday  39 

cotton  piled  up  on  the  levee.  Many  nights  I  slept  on  the 
planks  forming  the  paddle  wheels  of  the  steamers  and  vessels 
lying  along  the  river  banks.  Sometimes,  when  on  an  angle 
of  forty-five  degrees,  I  inwardly  hoped  that  before  morning 
I  would  unconsciously  roll  off  and  thus  end  my  despair  in 
the  river,  but  I  could  not.  Why?  Should  I  write  home  or 
to  friends  to  help  me?  No!  A  thousand  times  no!!  I 
knew  the  comment  would  be,  "I  told  you  so."  If  I  had  to 
die  this  way,  none  should  know  how  I  had  suffered  from 
hunger  and  starvation  in  my  adopted  country.  Some  days  I 
got  one  meal,  some  days  more.  I  came  across  others  suffering 
similar  hardships.     Why  should  I  complain? 

I  was  wearing,  during  my  vain  search  for  work,  the 
(dress)  suit  of  clothes  I  wore  at  Lincoln's  funeral  and  that 
plug  hat.  Neither  recommended  me  as  a  working  man. 
I  determined  to  change  these,  and  entered  a  Jew  store  near  the 
French  market,  picked  out  a  blue  flannel  shirt,  a  pair  of  pants 
and  soft  hat  and  asked  the  Jew  what  he  would  give  me  to 
boot.  He  said  he  had  no  use  for  that  hat  and  that  kind  of 
a  suit,  but  to  help  me  out  he  would  give  me  $1.50.  I  accepted 
the  bonus  and  changed  clothes  in  the  rear  part  of  the  store. 
This  done  I  went  over  to  the  French  market  and  bought  a 
biscuit  and  a  cup  of  coffee  at  an  expense  of  $1.00.  I  had  fifty 
cents  left.  After  this  elaborate  meal  I  went  down  to  the 
levee,  and  among  the  bales  of  cotton  I  rubbed  some  dirt  on  my 
.  hands,  neck  and  face  (I  had  tried  to  keep  clean  by  frequent 
washing  in  the  river),  to  make  myself  look  like  a  working 
man.  This  done  I  picked  up  a  stick,  got  on  top  of  a  pile  of 
cotton,  stood  the  stick  up  and  let  it  fall,  noting  its  course. 
This  course,  leading  up  the  river,  I  followed,  hoping  it  would 
bring  me  luck.  I  went  aboard  every  boat.  I  did  not  secure 
employment,  but  I  got  a  square  meal  on  one  of  them,  and  that 
night  I  slept  on  the  bales  of  cotton  covered  by  the  canopy  of 
heaven. 

I  attach  here  a  list  of  prices  that  prevailed  at  this  time 
and  you  can  imagine  how  far  the  fifty  cents  I  had  left  would 
go.     The  following  is  taken  from  a  newspaper  clipping: 


40  Trails  of  Yesterday 

PRICES  DOWN  SOUTH  DURING  WAR 

Quinine  was  $1,700  an  Ounce  and  Flour  $300  a  Barrel 

In  1865  an  ounce  of  quinine  could  not  be  purchased  for  less  than  $1,700 
in  the  South.  Provisions  were  simply  enormous  in  price.  Here  are  just  a  few 
instances:  A  ham  weighing  fifty  pounds  sold  for  exactly  $750,  or  at  the  rate 
of  $5  a  pound.    Flour  was  $300  a  barrel. 

Fresh  fish  retailed  all  over  at  $5  a  pound  and  ordinary  meal  was  at  $50  a 
bushel.  Those  who  lived  in  boarding  houses  paid  from  $200  to  $300  a  month. 
White  beans  retailed  at  $75  a  bushel.  Tea  went  for  anything  from  $20  a  pound 
to  $60  and  coffee  in  like  ratio. 

The  most  ordinary  brown  sugar  was  sold  for  $10  a  pound.  Ordinary 
adamantine  candles  were  sold  for  $10  a  pound.  In  a  cafe  breakfast  was 
ordinarily  $10.  In  April  rugar  went  to  $900  a  barrel  and  articles  of  wearing 
apparel  sold,  coats  at  $350,  trousers  at  $100  and  boots  at  $250. 

Butter  was  $15  a  pound.  Potatoes  went  for  $2  a  quart.  Tomatoes  of  the 
size  of  a  walnut  sold  for  $20  a  dozen.    Chickens  varied  from  $35  to  $50  a  pair. 

The  prices  on  the  bill  of  fare  of  the  Richmond  restaurant  in  January,  1864, 
were:  Soup,  $1.50;  bread  and  butter,  $1.50;  roast  beef,  a  plate,  $3;  boiled 
eggs,  $2;  ham  and  eggs,  $3.50;  rock  fish,  a  plate,  $5;  fried  oysters,  a  plate,  $5; 
raw  oysters,  $3 ;  fresh  milk,  a  glass,  $2 ;  coffee,  a  cup,  $2 ;  tea,  a  cup,  $2. 

These  figures  are  taken  from  various  sources  and  have  the  virtue  of 
accuracy,  if  nothing  else.  Always  was  present  the  fear  of  famine,  and  time 
and  time  again  did  the  soldiers  donate  a  portion  of  their  rations,  taken  from 
their  apportionment  in  the  field,  to  relieve  the  pressing  necessities. 

The  shrinkage  of  the  currency  was,  of  course,  responsible,  and  some  idea 
may  be  gathered  from  a  story  that  went  the  rounds  at  the  time.  A  soldier 
galloped  along  the  country  road  and  a  farmer  leaning  over  a  fence  admired 
the  animal.    He  called  to  the  trooper,  offering  to  buy  the  horse : 

"Give  you  $30,000  for  him,  Johnny,"  he  said. 

"Not  much,  old  man,  I  just  paid  $15,000  to  have  him  shod,"  was  the 
reply. — Spare  Moments. 

What  had  I  done  to  merit  this  punishment?  Why  had 
God  forsaken  me — He  who  cares  for  the  birds?  How  much 
longer  could  I  stand  this?  No  home,  no  shelter,  nothing  to 
eat,  without  friends — no  wonder  I  was  becoming  discouraged. 
My  usually  strong,  healthy  body  had  become  weak.  I  almost 
reeled  as  I  walked.  Life  was  becoming  daily  and  hourly  a 
burden.  Often  when  near  the  river  I  would  look  at  it  wist- 
fully and  murmur  to  myself  that  very  soon  it  would  be  my 
haven  of  rest.  These  sad  days  had  grown  into  weeks  when 
on  Saturday,  while  passing  a  saloon  on  the  levee  front,  I 
entered  it  and  began  looking  at  some  newspapers  lying  on  a 
table  near  the  door.  I  picked  up  one,  the  New  Orleans 
Picayune,  and  read  over  its  want  columns,  where  my  eyes  fell 
on  an  advertisement  which  read:  "Wanted: — One  thousand 
men  to  work  on  the  levee.    Apply  at  No. Canal  St.  next 


Trails  of  Yesterday  41 

Wednesday  at  9  :oo  o'clock  A.  M."  I  could  scarcely  believe 
this  good  news  and  read  it  again.  Yes,  it  was  true  and  no 
doubt  I  could  get  work,  but  how  could  I  live  until  Wednesday 
and  would  I  be  able  to  do  this  work?  That  night  I  went 
to  sleep  on  the  bales  of  cotton,  feeling  happier  though  supper- 
less.  I  thanked  Him  who  cares  for  the  unfortunate  and 
knew  He  would  not  make  my  burden  heavier  than  I  could 
bear. 

I  had  begged  three  meals  in  the  interval  between  Saturday 
and  Wednesday  morning  when  I  joined  the  motley  crowd 
standing  around  the  address  given  on  Canal  street.  Most  of 
them  were  laboring  men.  Some  were  drunk,  some  sober, 
some  hard  lookers  like  myself,  but  none  more  frail.  Some 
were  wearing  the  blue,  but  many  were  wearing  the  gray,  and 
some  were  genuine  levee  men.  All  seemed  to  pass  the  good- 
natured  Irish  foreman  at  the  window  who  looked  them  over, 
asked  their  names,  which  he  wrote  down,  and  told  them  to 
be  at  a  certain  levee  at  seven  o'clock  the  next  Saturday 
morning.  One  good-natured,  broad-shouldered  fellow, 
pointing  to  me,  asked  some  comrades  what  they  thought  I 
wanted  to  do.  "Oh,  I  suppose  he  wants  to  work  on  the 
levee,"  was  an  answer.  Another  remarked  that  it  would  not 
take  much  ice  to  keep  me  from  spoiling  if  I  died.  While 
waiting  my  turn  at  the  window  I  heard  many  other  remarks 
referring  to  my  physical  condition,  which  caused  me  to  lag 
back  and  lose  my  turn,  preferring  to  wait  until  the  last,  when 
I  mustered  up  courage  to  present  myself  at  the  window  and 
ask  whether  he  could  not  give  me  something  to  do;  that  I 
was  willing  to  do  anything  at  any  price  he  might  want  to  pay; 
that  I  had  been  unfortunate,  having  lost  everything  I  had  by 
a  late  shipwreck  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  that  I  was 
actually  starving.  With  tears  rolling  down  my  cheeks  I 
begged  him  to  help  me  by  giving  me  a  chance.  After  looking 
at  me  carefully  a  few  moments  he  asked  my  name  and  told 
me  I  could  go  along  if  I  got  to  the  boat  in  time  but  thought 
I  would  not  be  of  much  use.  I  need  not  say  that  I  was  on 
that  boat  early  Saturday  morning  and  was  not  ashamed  to 


42  Trails  of  Yesterday 

visit  the  cook-house  where  the  cook  gave  me  a  large  plateful 
of  food  and  when  I  went  back  for  another  he  asked  me  if  I 
had  thrown  it  overboard.  I  told  him  I  had  not  and  that  I 
might  come  back  for  a  third,  as  the  food  tasted  so  good. 

After  satisfying  my  poor,  hungry  stomach  I  lay  down  on 
the  deck  near  the  boilers  and  did  not  wake  up  until  dark 
when  I  found  the  boat  was  being  rushed  up  the  Mississippi 
as  fast  as  steam  could  send  her.  Our  captain  was  racing  with 
another  boat,  which  at  times  would  be  almost  alongside  our 
craft,  when  our  stokers  would  throw  chunks  of  tar,  bacon  and 
rosin  in  the  fire  boxes  and  the  old  boat  would  almost  heave 
itself  out  of  the  water  in  breasting  the  swift,  heavy  current. 
This  was  kept  up  the  greater  part  of  the  night  or  until  we  left 
our  competitor  a  long  distance  behind.  At  daylight  it  could 
not  be  seen. 

We  finally  arrived  at  our  destination,  Morganzie,  in  the 
bend  at  the  mouth  of  the  Red  River,  where  we  disembarked  to 
build  a  levee  five  miles  long,  one  hundred  feet  base,  thirty 
feet  high  and  twelve  feet  at  the  top.  The  work  was  under- 
taken by  the  State  of  Louisiana. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Building  the  Levee  at  Morganzie — hiving  too  Close  to  Nature — Life 
with  the  Levee  Gang — Merit  Receives  Reward 

ARRIVING  at  Morganzie  we  found  many  shacks  north 
of  the  Red  River  and  south  of  the  Mississippi  River 
that  General  Banks  had  built  for  his  negro  troops 
on  his  Red  River  expedition.  These  were  very  convenient 
for  our  men,  who  numbered  nearly  seven  hundred.  I  did  not 
secure  a  shanty.  I  had  no  bedding;  why  did  I  need  a  shanty? 
There  might  have  been  others  like  me  but  I  did  not  see  them. 
I  walked  back  to  the  point  on  the  river  where  we  landed,  but 
the  boat  had  returned  to  New  Orleans.  Finding  no  place  to 
sleep,  I  followed  the  river  bank  north  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
or  more,  where  I  was  stopped  by  a  bayou  jutting  out  from 
the  river.    Here  I  lay  down  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

This  had  been  my  resting  place  for  several  nights  when 
one  evening,  shortly  after  supper,  I  fell  into  conversation 
with  a  young  man  named  Hunter,  from  Ohio.  Like  myself, 
he  had  seen  better  days.  We  talked  on  various  subjects  and 
when  it  came  time  to  part  he  asked  me  where  I  slept.  I  told 
him  a  short  distance  up  the  river;  that  if  he  had  no  objections 
he  could  go  with  me  and  I  would  show  him  and  it  might  be 
we  could  share  the  quarters  together.  I  thought  I  had  nothing 
to  lose  on  the  proposition.  It  was  getting  dark  by  the  time 
we  arrived  at  the  bayou.  Hunter  had  already  asked  where  I 
was  taking  him,  when  I  stopped  and  told  him  that  the  wallow 
in  the  ground  at  our  feet  was  my  bed  and  my  pillow  a  small 
stick  of  wood  which  I  had  covered  with  moss  and  grass. 
This  wallow,  scraped  down  the  better  to  fit  the  projecting 
bones  of  my  emaciated  body,  made  it  not  the  worst  kind  of 
a  bed.  One  thing,  I  was  out  of  reach  of  drunken,  foul- 
mouthed  companions,  many  of  whom,  especially  the  South- 
erners, did  not  know  that  the  war  was  ended  and  went  around 
with  a  chip  on  each  shoulder,  daring  any  Yankee  to  knock 
it  off.     When  I  told  Hunter  that  this  had  been  my  sleeping 

43 


44  Trails  of  Yesterday 

place,  he  could  hardly  believe  it  and  remarked  it  was  a  wonder 
I  was  living. 

As  yet  I  had  felt  no  bad  effects,  except  that  my  clothes 
failed  to  dry  on  me  on  cloudy  days.  Some  mornings  I  could 
wring  the  water  out  of  them,  owing  to  heavy  dews  that  fell 
during  the  nights.  This  was  probably  the  latter  part  of 
December,  1865.  I  had  seen  happier  Christmas  days  than 
this  one.  One  night  as  I  lay  there,  shivering  with  cold,  a 
large  alligator  struck  the  side  of  my  head  with  his  tail,  mak- 
ing me  dizzy  for  a  time  and  spoiled  my  rest  for  the  balance 
of  the  night.  Until  this  happened  I  had  slept  peacefully  in 
the  open.  The  thought  had  flashed  through  my  mind,  "What 
if  one  of  these  ugly  monsters  should  take  a  notion  to  bite  off 
a  leg  or  an  arm  ?"  But  this  could  not  happen.  God  was  my 
protector  and  would  keep  me  from  harm.  It  did  not  take 
much  coaxing  by  my  new  found  friend,  Hunter,  to  persuade 
me  to  accompany  him  to  his  fairly  decent  shanty,  through  the 
roof  of  which  we  could  see  daylight  and  the  stars  at  night, 
and  share  his  bunk,  which  was  supplied  with  two  pairs  of 
blankets.  It  is  unnecessary  to  state  that  I  had  a  good  refresh- 
ing sleep  that  night,  feeling  as  though  I  were  in  a  palatial 
residence  instead  of  in  a  clapboard  shanty  eight  by  ten. 

It  was  some  ten  days  after  our  arrival  that  the  wheel- 
barrows, planks,  spades  and  shovels  arrived  for  the  work  of 
building  the  levee.  During  this  time  I  had  learned  much 
about  my  fellow  workers,  both  the  whites  (termed  Yanks  and 
Rebs)  and  some  one  hundred  or  more  negroes  who  had  come 
more  to  be  fed  and  cared  for  than  to  work.  The  Yanks  and 
Rebs,  as  the  soldiers  of  the  North  and  the  South  were  desig- 
nated, were  continually  fighting.  They  were  about  evenly 
matched  in  numbers.  The  Yanks  would  constantly  remind 
the  Rebs  that  they  had  been  whipped.  This  the  Rebs  would 
deny,  when  both  sides  would  go  at  it  again.  The  negroes 
would,  as  a  rule,  take  sides  with  the  strongest  in  number  if 
the  fight  were  easy.  If  the  fight  were  fierce  the  colored  men 
would  take  to  the  brush.  We  would  often  be  called  upon  to 
bury  one  or  more  after  these  fights  and  send  a  few  to  the 
hospital. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  45 

A  "jigger"  of  whiskey  was  rationed  out  four  to  six 
times  a  day  to  those  who  would  drink  it — one  before  break- 
fast, one  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  one  before  dinner, 
one  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  another  before 
supper — and  an  old  "soak"  could  get  one  before  he  turned 
into  his  bunk.  Very  often  these  "sots"  would  get  three 
drinks  before  breakfast  by  fooling  the  "jigger"  boy.  It 
was  amusing  to  watch  these  men  where  they  slept  in  the  large 
bunk  house.  I  watched  one  roll  out  of  his  bunk  and  go  to 
the  "jigger"  boy  in  his  undershirt  and  drawers.  A  few 
seconds  later  he  came  again,  after  having  added  his  hat  to 
his  costume.  He  came  next  with  his  hat  off  but  with  his  pants 
and  overshirt  on.  Shortly  he  came  back,  completely  dressed, 
and  drank  his  fourth  "jigger,"  but  did  not  appear  very  drunk. 
By  the  time  he  sat  down  to  breakfast  he  became  noisy  and 
wanted  to  lick  somebody.  He  was  accommodated  and  could 
not  work  that  day. 

It  was  a  common  thing  to  see  cups  of  hot  coffee  and 
plates  of  soup  flying  through  the  air  at  different  heads. 
Nearly  every  man  carried  a  dirk,  if  not  a  revolver.  The  dirk 
knife  was  the  most  popular.  A  thrust  and  a  groan  and  all 
was  over  in  almost  an  instant.     The  soul  went  to  its  Maker. 

I  well  remember  the  day  the  work  commenced,  when  we 
started  out  with  our  wheelbarrows  and  shovels  from  camp, 
the  planks  having  been  taken  out  ahead  by  team.  By  the 
time  I  arrived  at  the  work  I  could  keep  my  barrow  going 
straight  ahead  instead  of  in  a  zigzag  direction  as  when 
starting.  The  planks  were  laid  in  lines  fifteen  to  twenty  feet 
apart  and  fifty  to  seventy-five  feet  in  length.  An  expert  at 
loading  wheelbarrows  was  at  the  lead  of  the  fifteen  to  twenty 
men  with  barrows  behind  him.  This  lead  man  was  paid  extra 
and  when  he  said,  "All  aboard,"  we  were  all  supposed  to 
be  ready  with  loaded  wheelbarrows  to  follow  him.  Well  do 
I  remember  my  hard  efforts  to  fill  and  navigate  that  wheel- 
barrow on  that  plank.  I  was  unaccustomed  to  the  work.  I 
fell  off  more  than  once.  I  had  not  noticed  that  I  was  wheel- 
ing much  more  dirt  than  many  of  the  others.   I  would  bat 


46  Trails  of  Yesterday 

my  shovelful  down  while  the  expert  leveeman  would  pile  his 
up  edgewise  and  with  eight  shovelfuls  would  fill  his  barrow. 
I  would  put  in  twelve.  No  wonder  I  felt  faint  before  ten 
o'clock.  Large  drops  of  sweat  were  running  down  my  face. 
Big  water  blisters  were  on  my  hands.  When  the  "jigger" 
boy  approached  me  with  a  small  tin  cupful  of  whiskey  I 
declined  it,  but  Hunter,  who  was  behind  me,  insisted  that  I 
drink  it.  After  some  hesitation  I  drank  it.  I  soon  felt  its 
effects  and  the  only  wonder  in  my  mind  was  why  the  con- 
tractors wanted  to  work  such  a  large  force  of  men  on  a  small 
job  like  this.  Why,  it  seemed  that  I  could  build  that  levee 
myself  in  a  short  time.  Such  were  my  thoughts  while  under 
the  influence  of  the  liquor.  This  buoyant  feeling,  however, 
soon  vanished. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  Mr.  O'Hay,  one  of  the 
contractors  (the  Southerner),  came  along  examining  the 
work  we  were  doing.  He  had  stood  watching  the  gang  of 
men  on  our  plank.  I  was  conscious  that  he  was  watching 
me.  Coming  up  near  where  I  was  filling  my  wheelbarrow,  a 
rather  pleasant,  kindly  voice  remarked  that  the  work  seemed 
to  be  a  little  hard  for  me  and  asked  if  I  had  ever  done  such 
work  before.  I  told  him  I  had  not  but  that  I  either  had  to 
do  it  or  starve;  that  I  had  been  shipwrecked  in  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico  and  lost  all  I  had  except  a  few  letters  of  recom- 
mendation. He  asked  what  I  had  been  accustomed  to  do. 
I  told  him,  intimating  that  I  could  do  clerical  work  but  was 
anxious  to  do  anything.  He  told  me  to  bring  my  recom- 
mendations to  his  office  after  dinner  and  he  would  look  them 
over.  I  did  so  and  that  afternoon  I  was  made  purchasing 
agent  for  the  camp. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Experiences  as  Purchasing  Agent — Frazell  Kills   O'Hay — Floods 
Break  the  Levee — Freight  Checker  on  a  River  Boat 

1WAS  fast  resuming  my  normal  condition  and  although 
my  position  was  an  improvement  on  what  I  had  been 

doing  and  the  dark  clouds  that  had  hung  around  me  were 
beginning  to  disappear,  yet  I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  away 
from  this  work  and  these  demoralizing  associations  as  soon 
as  I  could.  Mr.  O'Hay  gave  me  full  instructions  as  to  my 
new  duties.  I  was  to  purchase  certain  lines  of  provisions  at 
the  lowest  possible  prices,  either  at  New  Orleans  or  from 
nearby  planters,  and  to  take  proper  bills  for  everything  I 
purchased,  these  to  be  receipted  when  I  paid  for  them.  A 
sum  of  money  was  placed  to  my  credit  in  one  of  the 
New  Orleans  banks  for  this  purpose.  I  was  getting  along 
nicely  and  giving  satisfaction  to  my  employers  and,  with  the 
exception  of  the  daily  fights  at  the  camp  as  to  "whether  the 
war  was  over,"  the  work  was  progressing  as  well  as  could  be 
expected.  It  was  no  unusual  thing  to  see  the  cooks  cleaned 
out  of  the  kitchen,  the  waiters  on  the  tables  and  bosses  off  the 
dumps  two  or  three  times  a  week.  This  was  tolerated.  The 
only  question  was  to  keep  the  work  moving,  as  the  river  was 
rising  rapidly  and  levees  about  us  were  reported  to  be  weak- 
ening. Before  the  first  of  February  it  was  reported  that  some 
levees  had  gone  out.  One  some  twenty  miles  above  us,  it 
was  claimed,  might  go  out  at  any  time. 

One  morning  the  sad  news  reached  camp  that  Frazell  had 
killed  O'Hay  in  a  quarrel  in  the  St.  Charles  Hotel  saloon 
in  New  Orleans.  On  receipt  of  this  news  our  camp  became 
a  scene  of  bloodshed.  All  work  stopped.  The  men  de- 
manded their  pay.  The  bosses  could  not  control  them.  The 
Southerners  swore  they  would  kill  every  Yankee  in  camp, 
threatened  to  burn  all  the  buildings  and  throw  the  wheel- 
barrows, planks  and  shovels  into  the  Mississippi.  Provisions 
were  getting  low  and  it  nearly  cost  me  my  life  because  I 

47 


48  Trails  of  Yesterday 

gave  the  men  soup  for  breakfast  instead  of  coffee.  I  re- 
member riding  several  miles  one  night  to  a  planter's  house 
to  get  coffee,  sugar,  syrup  and  beef  from  him.  I  told  him 
if  he  did  not  help  me  I  would  have  to  abandon  the  work. 
The  Governor  of  the  state  sent  up  the  Attorney  General,  who 
made  a  speech  to  the  men,  telling  them  that  the  state  would 
see  them  paid  and  that  ample  provisions  would  be  sent  us. 
Frazell  was  liberated  under  bond,  but  his  presence  in  camp 
made  the  Southerners  sulky  and  mean.  More  than  one  tried 
to  kill  him  until  they  heard  that  the  coroner's  jury  had 
justified  Frazell's  action  in  killing  O'Hay. 

News  reached  us  that  the  levee  a  number  of  miles  above 
our  camp  had  burst  in  several  places  and  that  it  would  be 
only  a  question  of  a  short  time  before  we  would  be  surrounded 
by  water.  Many  men  were  sent  up  by  first  boat  to  repair 
these  breaks.  Thousands  of  sacks  of  sand,  trees,  etc.,  were 
thrown  into  these  breaks  but  without  effect.  One  might  as 
well  try  to  stop  an  ocean.  The  country  around  us  was  flooded 
for  twenty  miles  and  it  became  a  serious  question  as  to 
whether  we  could  save  ourselves,  let  alone  any  of  the  camp 
equipment.  Every  boat,  going  up  or  down  the  river,  was 
signalled  and  the  men  and  their  belongings  were  either  taken 
up  or  down  the  river,  the  majority  of  the  men  returning  to 
New  Orleans. 

Mr.  Frazell  had  treated  me  with  the  greatest  kindness 
and  begged  me  to  go  to  Natchez  with  him.  He  even  offered 
me  a  partnership  with  him,  but  I  had  been  reading  about 
the  Placer  gold  mines  in  the  Gallatin  valley  in  Montana 
and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  go  there.  He  left  me 
standing  on  a  knoll  about  two  hundred  yards  square  above 
the  rushing  waters  around  me,  he  going  on  a  boat  to  New 
Orleans  and  promising  to  have  the  first  boat  he  met  call  for 
me.  One,  the  "Olive  Branch,"  did  so  before  dark.  Had  it 
not  done  so,  the  mound  and  this  writer  would  have  dis- 
appeared before  morning  in  the  "Father  of  Waters." 

I  went  to  St.  Louis,  arriving  there  about  April  i,  1866. 
I  found  that  overland  trains  of  horses,  mules  and  oxen  would 
not  leave  Fort  Leavenworth,  St.  Joseph  or  Nebraska  City,  the 


Trails  of  Yesterday  49 

three  principal  outfitting  points,  before  the  middle  of  May. 
Having  no  money  to  burn  and  anxious  to  keep  busy  I  hired 
out  to  the  captain  of  the  "Olive  Branch"  as  freight  checker 
for  a  trip  to  New  Orleans.  I  did  this  for  the  purpose  of 
bringing  up  the  leather  trunk  I  had  left  with  my  former 
landlady  on  Tchoupitoulas  street.  This  trunk  I  secured, 
brought  it  up  to  St.  Louis,  took  it  across  the  plains  with  me, 
and  kept  it  for  many  years,  when  finally  I  gave  it  to  an  old 
employee  named  Coleman. 

This  trip  to  New  Orleans  on  a  river  steamer  gave  me  a 
chance  to  observe  life  on  a  first-class  steamboat  on  the  Missis- 
sippi. Though  the  luxuries  were  nothing  like  they  were 
before  the  war,  yet  it  was  a  pleasant  trip.  The  boat  was 
crowded  with  passengers  and  freight.  It  carried  its  own 
band.  I  had  plenty  to  do  in  keeping  account  of  the  freight 
received  and  discharged.  At  the  same  time  I  was  always 
ready  and  willing  to  take  the  lead  of  a  tow  line  when  we  had 
to  make  a  landing.  I  did  this  at  Cairo  on  our  return  and 
jumped  into  the  river,  holding  the  head  of  the  line,  thinking 
the  river  was  about  six  feet  deep.  Instead  it  was  about  three 
feet  deep,  with  two  feet  of  very  soft  mud  in  which  I  stuck, 
with  the  boat  fast  coming  onto  me.  The  pilot  saw  my 
danger  of  being  smoothed  down  under  the  boat  and  though 
he  signalled  the  engineer  to  reverse  the  engine,  this  alone 
would  not  have  saved  me.  However  several  stout  deck  hands 
lay  down  on  the  edge  of  the  boat,  grabbed  me  under  the  arms 
and  pulled  and  dragged  me  on  to  the  boat  as  it  reached  me. 
I  did  not  do  this  fool  trick  any  more. 

We  finally  arrived  at  St.  Louis  where,  after  discharging 
our  cargo,  I  resigned  my  position  as  freight  checker.  I  re- 
mained in  St.  Louis  several  days  and  became  acquainted  with 
a  Mr.  Swank,  formerly  a  lieutenant  in  an  Ohio  regiment.  He 
had  been  shot  in  the  face  with  a  bullet  and  badly  disfigured. 
I  found  him  a  good  sort  of  a  fellow  who,  like  myself,  had 
the  Gallatin  valley  gold  fever  on  the  brain.  We  decided  to 
double  up  and  go  there  together.  He  had  made  one  trip  as 
bullwhacker  over  the  Smoky  Hill  trail  and  this  experience 
on  his  part  proved  quite  a  help  to  me  later  on. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Gallatin   Valley  Gold  Fever — Destination  Fourth  Company  Post 

(Ft.  Phil  Kearny) — Nebraska  City  in  the  Early  Days — 

My  Five  Resolutions — Life  as  a  Bullwhacker — 

An  Enemy — Mr.  Bass 

AFTER  gathering  all  the  information  possible  Swank 
and  I  concluded  to  take  passage  on  boat  to  Nebraska 
City  where  it  was  said  that  some  ox,  mule  and  horse 
trains  were  to  leave  shortly  with  government  freight  for 
Fourth  Company  Post  east  of  Fort  C.  F.  Smith  and  north- 
west of  Fort  Reno.  Our  little  "stern  wheeler"  got  stuck 
several  times  en  route  up  the  Missouri  River  from  St.  Louis 
to  Nebraska  City.  An  old  German  inland  sailor  was  taking 
the  soundings  on  the  bow  of  the  boat  and  calling  them  out 
very  regularly,  when  all  at  once  he  shouted,  "Not  very  much 
vater  here,"  and  when  our  boat  ground  on  a  hidden  sandbar, 
the  old  sailor  yelled  out,  "Didn't  I  told  you  so?" 

We  arrived  at  Nebraska  City,  which  had  not  yet  given 
up  the  thought  of  becoming  the  terminal  of  the  Union  Pacific 
Railroad.  Many  horse,  mule  and  ox  teams  were  there,  all 
busy  getting  their  outfits  together.  Swank  and  the  writer 
had  no  trouble  in  finding  work.  We  hired  out  to  a  Mr.  Bass, 
a  big,  rough,  six-foot  Missourian,  a  nephew  of  the  owner  of 
the  twenty-eight  six-yoke  ox  teams.  Our  pay  was  to  be  $45.00 
per  month  and  board  and  we  were  to  take  our  discharge  out 
at  Fourth  Company  Post,  our  destination  point.  Mr.  Bass 
agreed  to  arm  each  bullwhacker  with  gun  and  ammunition 
when  we  arrived  at  old  Fort  Kearny,  better  known  as 
"Dobytown." 

Nebraska  City  at  this  time  was  not  a  large  place.  There 
were  a  number  of  well-stocked  stores  on  Main  street,  several 
forwarding  warehouses,  many  saloons,  dance  houses  and 
gambling  dens.  Everything  was  wide  open,  free  and  easy, 
like  the  bullwhackers,  mule  skinners  and  horse  team  drivers — 

50 


Trails  of  Yesterday  51 

quite  a  different  class  of  men  to  my  late  companions  on  the 
levee,  these  being  more  frank  and  generous.  At  the  same 
time  each  carried  a  chip  on  his  shoulder  and  perchance  it 
were  knocked  off,  an  account  for  it  would  be  called  for  very 
quickly.  Nearly  every  man  carried  one  or  two  revolvers  on 
the  well-filled  belt  of  cartridges  around  his  waist,  besides  a 
bowie  knife  sometimes  stuck  in  his  belt  and  sometimes  stuck 
in  the  top  of  his  high-legged  boot. 

The  city  marshal,  a  man  of  nerve,  tried  to  keep  order; 
but  at  times,  toward  midnight,  crazed  by  drink,  the  men  and 
sometimes  the  women  would  get  too  boisterous  and  too  many 
for  him  and  would  run  the  town  to  suit  themselves.  At  these 
times  camp  would  be  the  best  and  safest  place,  since  the  fun 
would  usually  end  in  a  killing.  It  was  these  wild  scenes  in 
the  West  and  others  that  I  had  witnessed  on  the  levee  that 
caused  me  to  adopt  for  my  future  guidance  some  resolutions : 
one  that  I  would  not  drink;  another  that  I  would  not  gamble; 
a  third  that  I  would  avoid  swearing;  a  fourth  that  I  would 
not  smoke  or  use  tobacco ;  fifth  that  I  would  try  to  be  a  good, 
moral  man.  I  noticed  many  young  men  going  down  the  road 
to  destruction  at  a  rapid  rate  and  I  determined  to  avoid  this 
if  possible. 

I  had  rigged  myself  up  in  bullwhacker's  garb — blue 
flannel  shirt,  pair  of  pants,  belt,  cartridges,  revolver,  bowie 
knife,  pair  of  heavy  boots,  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  an  up-to- 
date  bullwhacker's  whip — three  feet  stock  and  twelve  feet 
lash,  with  extra  buckskin  to  repair  the  whip  lash  and  make 
new  poppers  at  the  end  of  lash.  With  two  pairs  of  blankets, 
a  war  sack  (an  empty  seamless  sack)  and  an  old  army  over- 
coat, I  was  ready  to  accompany  Swank  and  join  the  outfit, 
which  was  camped  some  three  miles  west  of  the  city. 

We  arrived  at  camp  shortly  before  noon  and  I  was 
ordered  by  the  assistant  wagon  boss  to  go  out  to  the  herd 
and  relieve  the  herder.  The  herd  was  a  mile  or  so  west  of 
camp.  This  herding  was  new  to  me  and  being  afraid  that 
some  steers  might  stray  away,  I  made  it  an  unnecessarily  hard 
task.     But  the  work  was  not  without  interest.     While  tramp- 


52 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


ing  around  the  steers  I  imagined  I  could  pick  out  friends 
and  enemies.  These  work  cattle !  Some  had  never  seen  a 
yoke,  let  alone  been  worked.  Part  were  native  cattle,  others 
Cherokee  and  some  Texas.  When  the  two  mounted  night 
herders  came  out  about  dusk  to  relieve  me  I  thought  I  had 
put  in  a  faithful  half  day.  I  returned  to  camp  but  found  it 
deserted.  Even  my  friend  Swank  had  gone  to  the  city.  I 
went  through  the  cook  wagon  and  tent,  thinking  I  could  find 
something  to  eat  but  did  not,  so  I  spread  my  blankets  under 


Life  as  a  Bullwhacker 

the  wagon,  lay  down  and  was  soon  fast  asleep.  The  bull- 
whackers  continued  to  come  into  camp  until  towards  morning, 
when  one  of  the  night  herders  rode  in  to  wake  the  cook  to 
get  breakfast.  It  consisted  of  coffee,  syrup,  fried  bacon 
between  a  thick  pancake  or  thin  pone  of  bread  baked  in  a 
covered  skillet.  The  bread  was  made  from  flour  and  common 
baking  soda.    The  cook  said  the  sugar  had  not  come  yet. 

In  the  morning  I  was  set  to  work  with  Swank  making  ox- 
bow keys  and  fitting  bows  to  yokes.  I  began  to  get  acquainted 
with  my  fellow  bullwhackers.  A  few  were  good,  some 
medium  and  others  very  bad.  Lack  of  enforcement  of  law 
and  order  seemed  to  add  to  their  meanness.    The  men  ranged 


Trails  of  Yesterday  53 

in  years  from  twenty  to  forty-five  and  as  I  seemed  to  be  the 
only  one  in  this  crowd  of  about  thirty-three  men  who  did  not 
drink,  swear,  play  cards,  smoke  or  chew  tobacco,  I  was  soon 
put  down  for  a  "goody-goody"  or  a  fool  for  lacking  these 
accomplishments.  One  remarked  that  my  early  education 
had  been  sadly  neglected.     I  took  these  jokes  good-naturedly. 

On  or  about  May  15,  1866,  we  broke  camp  and  started 
on  our  perilous  trip.  We  could  not  pick  up  a  newspaper  that 
did  not  have  something  in  it  about  Indian  depredations. 
Road  ranches,  stage  stations,  emigrant  and  freight  trains, 
stage  coaches  and  pony  express  riders  were  being  attacked 
daily  on  the  California  and  other  trails.  Red  Cloud  and 
other  noted  chiefs  of  the  Sioux  nation  had  been  invited  to  a 
conference  at  Fort  Laramie  by  the  Indian  commission.  The 
Sioux  nation  at  this  time  was  not,  as  a  nation,  at  war  with 
the  whites  but  the  depredations  were  being  committed  by 
roving  bands  of  Indians  belonging  to  different  tribes. 

Each  teamster,  with  a  sixty-hundred  loaded  wagon,  con- 
sisting of  coffee,  sugar,  beans,  flour,  bacon,  salt,  crackers, 
condensed  milk,  syrup,  desiccated  vegetables,  boots  and 
shoes,  etc.,  etc.,  was  given  six  yoke  of  cattle.  The  wheelers 
and  lead  cattle  were  somewhat  gentle  but  the  four  yoke  of 
swing  cattle  were  more  or  less  wild,  as  this  was  the  first  time 
they  had  been  yoked  up.  It  took  sometimes  a  dozen  men — 
teamsters,  wagon  bosses  and  night  herders — to  get  one  team 
started.  At  times  the  wild  swing  cattle  would  start  on  a  run 
or  stampede,  getting  ahead  of  the  leaders,  when  all  we 
could  do  was  to  keep  them  in  the  trail.  We  upset  two  wagons 
and  by  the  time  night  came  we  had  made  probably  a  mile. 
We  dropped  the  chains  from  the  yokes  of  the  swing  or  wild 
cattle  and  unyoked  the  gentle  cattle  only.  It  took  about  ten 
to  fifteen  days  before  we  controlled  our  wild  cattle,  but  once 
broken  they  did  good  work. 

I  think  we  had  made  nearly  sixty  miles  on  our  journey 
without  my  swearing,  much  to  the  disgust  of  my  fellow  bull- 
whackers,  who  often  scolded  me  for  not  doing  so,  when  one 
morning  between  three  and  four  o'clock,  while  engaged  in 


54  Trails  of  Yesterday 

yoking  up  my  team,  one  of  my  steers  stepped  on  my  foot  and 
I  am  sorry  to  say  I  said  "Damn  you."  It  went  through  the 
camp  in  an  instant  and  many  of  the  men  cheered  and  com- 
mended me  highly  for  the  start  I  had  made  and  hoped  I 
would  keep  it  up.  While  my  comrades  were  doing  this  and 
showering  me  with  bouquets  on  this  mild  beginning,  I  was  just 
as  busy  in  the  opposite  direction,  quietly  asking  God  to  forgive 
me  and  asking  Him  to  keep  me  from  it  in  the  future. 

The  daily  routine  of  a  bullwhacker's  life  on  the  trail, 
while  a  hard  one,  was  not  all  clouds.  It  had  its  sunshine. 
Each  day's  travel  presented  something  new,  as  there  always 
is  in  going  through  a  new  country.  Each  day's  experience 
would  make  an  interesting  chapter  if  written.  We  would  be 
awakened  by  the  night  herders  about  three  to  three-thirty 
A.  M.  with  the  call,  "Cattle  in  the  corral !"  This  meant  for  all 
to  roll  out  and  the  night  herders  to  turn  in.  It  usually  took 
from  one-half  to  three-fourths  of  an  hour  to  yoke  up  and 
commence  moving  on  the  trail,  which  we  would  follow  about 
eight  miles  before  breakfast,  much  depending  on  water  and 
feed  for  the  cattle.  Our  wagon  boss  or  assistant  usually  would 
go  ahead  and  locate  these  camping  places  which  had  to  be 
selected  with  care,  usually  on  high  ground  not  too  close  to 
timber,  brush,  river  or  creeks,  sudden  hills  or  depressions  in 
adjoining  ground — all  with  a  view  to  avoid  being  ambushed 
by  Indians.  We  would  try  to  make  these  morning  camps 
between  eight  and  nine-thirty,  forming  our  wagons  into  a 
circle,  the  lead  team  to  right  forming  left  wing  of  corral 
— second  team  bowing  out  in  forming  right  wing  of  corral, 
bringing  the  tongues  of  the  two  wagons  within  twenty  feet 
of  each  other.  The  wagons  would  follow  in  their  places — 
first  to  left,  next  to  right  and  thus  alternately,  the  off  front 
wheel  coming  close  to  the  nigh  hind  wheel  of  the  wagon  ahead 
and  vice  versa  on  the  right  hand  wing  of  the  train.  After 
a  little  practice  we  could  make  these  corrals  almost  perfect 
and  by  chaining  the  front  and  rear  entrance,  and  any  wagon 
wheels  that  did  not  come  together  snugly,  we  would  have  a 
solid  corral  in  which  to  put  our  cattle  and  the  night  herders' 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


55 


and  wagon  bosses'  horses  in  case  of  an  Indian  attack.  The 
gaps  all  chained,  the  yokes  belonging  to  each  wagon  were  then 
put  on  the  inside  of  the  corral  ready  for  the  next  yoke-up. 
The  cattle  were  unyoked  and  taken  by  two  herders — bull- 
whackers,  in  their  proper  term — to  graze  and  water  in  the 
daytime,  usually  resting  until  about  one  to  two  P.  M.,  when 
the  steers  were  brought  back  into  the  corral  and  yoked  up  and 
another  drive  of  about  eight  miles  made  before  dark,  two 
other  bullwhackers  taking  charge  of  the  work  steers  until  the 


Cattle  and  Wagon  Corral 

night  herders  had  their  supper,  when  they  would  take  charge 
of  the  cattle  until  time  to  corral  again  the  next  morning. 

The  bullwhackers  in  camp,  when  there  were  no  wheels 
to  fix,  tires  to  tighten,  boxes  to  wedge,  oxen  to  shoe,  or  clothes 
to  wash  or  mend,  could  sleep,  play  cards,  write  letters  or  tell 
stories.  The  stories  of  one  old  bullwhacker  who  had  seen 
much  of  frontier  life  were  quite  interesting.  He  would  tell 
about  the  noted  stage  company  boss,  Jack  Slade,  who  caught 
one  of  his  stage  tenders  listening  at  a  door  and  who  whipped 
out  his  bowie  knife  and  cut  the  listener's  ear  off,  telling  him 
if  he  ever  caught  him  doing  it  again,  he  would  cut  his  heart 
out — and  hundreds  of  other  such  bloodthirsty  stories.  We 
had  one  bullwhacker  in  our  train  who  had  been  scalped  by 
the  Indians  near  Fort  Larnard.     The  Indians  scalped  him, 


56  Trails  of  Yesterday 

stripped  all  his  clothes  off  him,  and  to  see  whether  he  was 
dead,  stuck  sharp  pointed  arrows  between  his  toes.  We  had 
another  bullwhacker  who  carried  several  scars  made  by 
Indian  arrows.  But  no  matter — this  is  old.  Maybe  I  will  be 
given  a  chance  to  tell  what  we  saw,  which  I  expect  to  chronicle 
in  this  book,  without  coloring,  just  as  it  occurred. 

All  our  men  were  strong  and  healthy,  good  shots  and 
ready  for  any  emergency,  even  to  a  fight  with  Indians.  At 
this  time  had  the  writer  been  killed,  it  would  have  taken  more 
ice  to  preserve  his  body  than  it  would  had  he  died  in  New 
Orleans  about  the  time  he  hired  out  to  work  on  the  levee. 

Some  of  the  stage  coaches  we  would  meet  coming  from  the 
West  would  show  the  hard  knocks  received — some  with  bullet 
holes  in  them  and  some  with  arrow  heads  broken  off.  Often 
the  driver  would  come  tearing  along  with  four  instead  of  six 
horses.  Some  coaches,  beside  having  trunks  and  mail  sacks 
piled  high  on  the  hind  boot,  would  have  six  to  ten  passengers 
aboard,  all  well  armed  as  well  as  the  driver. 

By  the  time  we  reached  "Dobytown"  (old  Fort  Kear- 
ny), even  our  wild  cattle  were  becoming  gentle  so  we  could 
unyoke  and  give  them  a  better  chance  to  feed  and  rest. 

In  spite  of  all  my  sincere  resolutions  not  to  swear,  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  sometimes  when  I  got  stuck  in  a  mud  hole 
or  in  heavy  sand,  I  would  find  myself  saying  curse  words 
before  I  realized  it,  when  I  would  resolve  again  to  stop  it. 

Arriving  at  "Dobytown"  we  learned  much  about  Indian 
depredations.  It  was  said  that  the  Indians  had  burned  every 
ranch  between  "Dobytown"  and  Fort  McPherson  and  that 
all  stage  coaches,  and  emigrant  and  freight  trains,  coming 
or  going,  were  being  attacked.  The  troops  at  both  posts  were 
kept  hot  on  the  trail  of  the  Indians  in  trying  to  protect  people 
from  being  massacred  on  the  trail  over  which  we  also  had 
to  go.  Many  of  these  depredations  were  being  committed 
by  the  Sioux,  but  it  was  claimed  that  other  tribes,  Cheyennes 
especially,  were  aiding  in  these  butcheries. 

As  stated,  our  wagon  boss,  before  leaving  Nebraska  City, 
had  agreed  to  furnish  us  guns  and  ammunition  on  arrival  at 


Trails  of  Yesterday  57 

"Dobytown"  but  none  had  arrived.  Five  of  us  bullwhackers 
objected  to  proceeding  farther  without  them.  This  made 
Mr.  Bass  very  angry  and  he  gave  us  to  understand  that  he 
could  get  along  without  us  and  that  we  would  receive  no  pay 
for  work  done.  He  said  we  were  leaving  because  we  could 
get  more  pay  here  at  "Dobytown."  True,  we  could  get 
more  pay  but  we  all  wanted  to  go  to  Fourth  Company  Post 
or  farther.  A  firm  by  the  name  of  Lydell  &  Brown  kept  a 
store  at  the  place  and  Mr  Lydell  was  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
a  very  important  officer  on  the  frontier.  To  him  I  stated 
my  case  in  the  presence  of  Mr  Bass  and  he  told  Mr  Bass  that 
if  he  did  not  furnish  us  each  with  a  gun  and  ammunition  as 
agreed  at  Nebraska  City,  we  need  not  go  with  him  and  he 
would  have  to  pay  us  for  work  done.  This  decision  enraged 
him.  He  wired  for  guns  and  ammunition,  which  reached 
us  in  a  few  days,  when,  after  coupling  up  with  three  other 
ox  trains  loaded  with  government  freight  and  with  Mr.  Bass 
as  captain,  we  pulled  out  for  the  west.  Mr  Bass  gave  it  out 
cold  that  he  would  get  even  with  us,  especially  with  the 
writer. 

I  attach  a  brief  history,  taken  from  a  newspaper,  of  this 
old  Fort  Kearny,  formerly  called  Fort  Childs. 

Among  the  western  forts  established  by  the  national  government  for  the 
protection  of  settlers  and  travelers  to  the  gold  fields  of  the  West,  none  had  a 
more  romantic  history  than  did  old  Fort  Kearny,  which  members  of  the 
Nebraska  delegation  are  asking  to  have  converted  into  a  national  park. 
Located  near  the  geographical  center  of  the  country  on  the  second  bottom 
lands  of  the  Platte  river,  on  the  direct  route  of  the  great  caravan  of  gold- 
seekers  for  the  Oregon  country,  the  fort  was  the  center  of  numerous  encounters 
with  the  Indians  as  well  as  the  rendezvous  of  hunters  and  scouts  and  other 
picturesque  citizens  of  the  west. 

Fort  Kearny  was  established  under  orders  of  Secretary  of  War  Marcy, 
in  1848,  by  Captain  Childs  of  the  Missouri  volunteers.  He  intended  to 
establish  the  fort  near  the  present  city  of  Aurora,  in  Hamilton  County,  but 
decided  on  the  Kearny  location  because  of  the  advantage  of  Carson's  Crossing 
of  the  Platte  river,  the  fording  of  the  Platte  farther  to  the  east  being  dangerous. 
Buildings  at  the  fort  were  commenced  on  June  17,  1848,  but  on  July  8,  the 
Platte  rose  rapidly  and  swept  away  the  buildings  partially  constructed.  The 
troops  then  moved  farther  away  from  the  river  and  continued  the  construction 
of  the  fort.  Here  the  fort  was  eventually  completed  and  its  ruins  lie  there 
to-day  with  the  trenches  and  embankments  plainly  showing  on  the  prairie. 
The  fort  was  named  from  its  builder,  Fort  Childs. 

In  February,  1849,  Childs  was  succeeded  in  command  by  Major  Ruff  of 


58  Trails  of  Yesterday 

the  Mounted  Rifles,  U.  S.  A.,  and  soon  after  the  name  of  the  post  was  changed  to 
Fort  Kearny,  Oregon  Route.  In  1854  the  name  was  again  changed  to  Fort 
Kearny,  Nebraska  Territory.  It  was  named  in  honor  of  General  Phil 
Kearny  and  was  known  as  "New  Fort  Kearny"  on  account  of  the  old  fort  at 
Nebraska  City  bearing  the  same  name. 

In  1849  Major  Ruff  was  sent  to  establish  Fort  Laramie  and  was  relieved 
of  his  command  at  Fort  Kearny  by  Colonel  Crittenden.  He  was  succeeded 
by  General  Phil  Kearny  and,  later,  General  Harney  took  command  of  the  post. 

Trees  were  set  out  and  preparations  were  made  to  make  the  fort  a 
permanent  fixture  on  the  prairies.  Gradually  the  fortifications  were  strength- 
ened and  the  fort  was  made  one  of  great  strength.  During  all  the  years  of 
overland  travel,  the  fort  was  the  point  at  which  travelers  stopped  to  recruit. 
For  years  the  Indians  were  peaceful  but  in  1864  the  Sioux  and  Cheyenne 
Indians  became  hostile.  The  trouble  arose  because  some  owners  of  strayed 
oxen  refused  to  pay  a  reward  to  the  Indians  who  returned  them.  Receiving 
no  reward,  the  Indians  withdrew,  taking  the  oxen  with  them.  A  detachment 
of  soldiers  was  sent  after  them  and  a  fight  ensued  in  which  many  soldiers  were 
killed.  The  Indians  began  in  earnest  to  drive  the  whites  back  and  they 
successfully  carried  out  several  massacres.  Settlers  became  frightened  and  the 
fort  was  thronged  with  families  fleeing  from  the  redskins.  For  a  short  time 
all  travel  to  the  West  was  stopped  at  Fort  Kearny.  Then  the  travelers  were 
organized  into  bands  of  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  families,  a  captain  being 
chosen  for  each,  before  they  would  be  permitted  to  proceed. 

Before  proceeding  on  the  trail  I  happened  to  be  in  the 
sutler's  store  where  I  picked  up  a  "Harper's  Monthly,"  which 
I  asked  Mr.  Bass  to  purchase  for  me.  He  declined,  remark- 
ing that  he  would  give  me  something  else  to  do  besides  reading 
that  damned  Yankee  book.  There  was  a  gentleman  in  the 
store  (I  think  it  was  Dr.  Miller,  later  publisher  of  the  Omaha 
Herald)  who  heard  the  talk  between  us.  He  asked  if  I 
wanted  that  "Harper's."  I  told  him  I  did  very  much  and  he 
gave  it  to  me.  This  kind  act  on  Dr.  Miller's  part  added  fuel 
to  the  flame  between  Mr.  Bass  and  myself.  Some  years  later 
I  met  Dr.  George  L.  Miller  in  Omaha  and  thanked  him  for 
this  kindness,  which  he  seemed  to  remember. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

On  the  Overland  Trail — Fort  McPherson  in   1866 — The  Morrow 
Ranch — Other  Noted  Road  Ranches 

EACH  day's  drive  was  a  repetition  of  the  previous  one 
except  that  it  unfolded  a  new  and  undeveloped  country, 
presenting  new  and  ever  changing  scenes  as  we  fol- 
lowed the  trail  along  the  south  bank  of  the  Platte  River,  on 
which  grew  more  or  less  brush  and  timber,  the  latter  mostly 
Cottonwood  and  elm.  Some  days  we  would  camp  on  the  river 
bank  and  sometimes  a  mile  or  so  distant.  Our  train  had  one 
cook  and  mess  outfit.  Each  driver  was  supposed  to  do  his  best 
to  supply  fuel,  either  in  wood,  buffalo  or  cow  chips.  The  latter 
made  good  cooking  fuel,  if  dry,  but  when  wet  and  no  dry 
wood  accessible  we  could  drink  water  and  eat  crackers  and 
molasses. 

Before  arriving  at  the  Midway  ranch,  which  had  been 
fired  by  the  Indians  and  was  still  burning,  I  discovered  that 
Mr.  Bass  was  making  his  word  good  about  getting  even  with 
me.  I  often  noticed  a  little  favoritism  practiced  by  him. 
He  seemed  to  take  especial  delight  in  keeping  me  busy  while 
many  of  my  fellow  bullwhackers  were  allowed  to  rest.  His 
frequent  order  was,  "Now,  Bratt,  you  do  this."  We  were 
supposed  to  supply  the  camp  with  water  in  five-gallon  kegs 
in  our  turns  but  I  was  often  asked  to  do  this  before  my  turn 
came.  In  case  of  sickness  of  one  of  the  night  herders  or 
drivers  I  would  be  requested  to  take  his  place  or  to  drive 
two  teams.  If  another  driver's  wagon  wheel  needed  fixing, 
I  would  be  requested  to  help  him.  If  some  of  the  steers 
strayed  away  from  the  night  herders,  I  would  be  sent  out  to 
find  them.  If  some  driver's  steer  became  lame,  I  would  be 
requested  to  exchange  one  of  mine  for  his.  Sometimes  my 
best  wheel  or  lead  steer  would  be  taken  from  me  and  an  out- 
law would  be  given  me  in  place  of  him.  These  and  many 
other  outrages  were  heaped  upon  me.     Even  some  of  my 

59 


60  Trails  of  Yesterday 

bullwhacker  companions  would  speak  to  me  about  these  im- 
positions and  advise  me  to  protest  against  Mr.  Bass's  treat- 
ment, promising  to  stand  by  me  no  matter  what  happened. 
I  took  all  good-naturedly  and  without  protest  for  a  long  time, 
thinking  that  after  a  while  he  would  exhaust  his  hatred  or 
become  ashamed  of  his  actions  toward  me.  But  no !  The 
farther  we  went  and  the  more  I  did  for  him,  the  worse  he 
became. 

We  again  began  to  meet  east-bound  coaches  that  had 
been  savagely  attacked  by  Indians.  Sometimes  one  or  more 
horses  had  been  killed  and  one  passed  us  in  which  there  was 
a  dead  passenger  and  another  in  which  a  passenger  had  been 
fatally  wounded.  So  far,  owing,  no  doubt,  to  precautions 
taken,  our  trains  had  escaped  attack.  Extra  day  and  night 
herders  were  sent  out  with  the  cattle,  keeping  scouts  ahead 
of  our  trains  which  we  kept  well  closed  up  and  guarded, 
especially  through  the  hilly  country. 

We  arrived  at  Fort  McPherson,  after  having  passed 
several  road  ranches  that  had  been  abandoned  or  burned  to  the 
ground.  Among  these  may  be  mentioned  those  of  Peniston  & 
Miller,  the  Gilman  Bros.,  and  others,  who  had  taken  refuge 
at  Fort  McPherson ;  also  John  Burke  and  family,  Sam  Fitchie, 
E.  E.  Ericksson  and  others  who  barely  escaped  with  their 
lives.  Fort  McPherson  was  a  large  post  built  principally  of 
cedar  logs.  Officers'  quarters  were  frame  buildings  located  at 
the  mouth  of  Cottonwood  canon,  accommodating  ten  or  more 
companies  of  cavalry  and  infantry,  who  were  kept  busy  trying 
to  keep  the  Indians  off  the  overland  trains,  stage  coaches 
and  settlers.  Here  we  were  halted,  arms  and  ammunition 
carefully  examined  and  our  force  strengthened  by  two  addi- 
tional ox  trains  loaded  with  government  supplies  for  Fort 
Laramie,  when  we  were  allowed  to  proceed,  with  our  big 
Mr.  Bass  still  acting  as  captain  and  meaner  than  ever  to  me. 

The  Platte  River,  at  this  point  said  to  be  a  mile  wide,  at 
this  time  was  bank  full  of  yellowish,  muddy  water.  Much 
driftwood  was  going  down  in  the  current.  Some  of  this  we 
caught  and  slung  under  our  wagons,  expecting  it  to  dry  out  in 


Trails  of  Yesterday  61 

the  course  of  a  few  days.  We  caught  some  fish.  This  with 
the  deer,  antelope  and  buffalo  that  we  occasionally  secured, 
gave  us  some  variety  with  our  beans,  coffee,  bacon,  syrup  and 
Dutch-oven  bread. 

Some  miles  west  of  Fort  McPherson  we  passed  what 
was  left  of  the  Burke  ranch.  Like  others,  they  grabbed 
what  little  they  could  and  fled  to  Fort  McPherson  to  escape 
being  killed  by  the  Indians,  who,  out  of  vengeance,  because 
they  could  not  overtake  the  fleeing  family,  took  everything 
of  value  and  then  set  fire  to  the  buildings.  Little  did  I  dream 
at  that  time  that  the  little  blue-eyed  daughter,  who  came  so 
near  being  captured,  would  one  day  become  my  wife. 

A  wagon  bridge  had  been  constructed  by  John  Burke  a 
year  or  so  before  this  over  the  South  Platte  River,  about  the 
point  where  it  flows  into  the  North  Platte  River,  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  freight  and  passengers  coming  and  going 
by  Platte  City,  now  known  as  North  Platte,  a  place  at  that 
time  of  300  to  500  people. 

When  we  were  opposite  the  junction  of  the  North  and  the 
South  Platte  rivers  we  ran  against  the  Jack  Morrow  dike 
that  the  noted  ranchman  had  dug  to  prevent  any  freighting  or 
emigrant  wagons  from  traveling  north  of  his  road  ranch, 
which  at  this  time  was  located  at  the  foot  of  the  hills  north 
of  the  Jack  Morrow  canon  about  one  mile  south  of  Bratt's 
old  ranch,  now  the  Turpie  ranch.  We  stayed  an  hour  or  so 
trading  at  the  Morrow  ranch  and  I  had  the  privilege  of  meet- 
ing that  noted  ranchman,  who  wore  a  diamond  (said  to  be 
valued  at  $1000.00)  in  his  yellow  and  badly  soiled  shirt 
bosom.  There  were  several  hundred  Sioux  Indians,  squaws 
and  papooses  camped  near  the  ranch,  besides  numerous  squaw- 
men  and  others,  among  whom  can  be  named  Jack  Sharp,  Bob 
Rowland,  Tod  Randall,  Turgeon  and  some  other  noted  fron- 
tiersmen who  could  talk  the  Sioux  language  fluently.  This 
noted  ranch  had  a  hard  name  among  emigrants  on  account 
of  its  record  of  Indian  thefts.  Scarcely  a  train  passed  it  but 
that  lost  stock  and  when  the  owner  of  the  stolen  stock  would 
appeal  to  Morrow,  that  gentleman  would  be  truly  sympathetic 


62  Trails  of  Yesterday 

and  offer  to  sell  him  others  at  a  big  figure.  Morrow  or  some 
of  his  crooks  would  usually  have  a  bunch  of  work  cattle, 
work  horses  or  mules  under  herd  in  the  hills.  This  herd  was 
kept  replenished  from  emigrants'  stolen  stock,  which  he  would 
sell  "just  to  help  them  out."  The  ranch  was  well  stocked 
with  provisions,  clothing,  firearms,  whiskey,  tobacco,  etc., 
which  were  sold  at  very  high  prices.  A  squaw  offered  me  a 
little  Indian  boy,  naked  save  for  a  string  of  beads  around  his 
neck,  for  a  plug  of  tobacco.  I  did  not  make  the  exchange. 
While  here  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Morrow,  wife  of  this 


On  the  Overland  Trail 

noted  ranchman.  She  seemed  to  be  a  modest,  refined,  rather 
neatly-dressed  woman  and  much  out  of  place  at  this  frontier 
road  ranch.  Had  any  one  told  me  then  that  my  four 
daughters  would  be  born  within  a  mile  of  this  notorious 
ranch,  I  would  not  have  believed  it. 

Our  trading  done,  we  resumed  our  journey  northwe?*- 
toward  the  south  bend  of  Fremont  Creek  (now  known  as 
Fremont  Slough)  and  so  named  in  honor  of  General  Fremont 
when  he  made  his  overland  trip  many  years  before.  Here 
we  camped  for  the  night,  using  every  precaution  against  theft 
by  the  Morrow  Indian  raiders.  It  was  probably  this  doubling 
of  guards  and  night  herders  that  saved  us  from  loss.     We 


Trails  of  Yesterday  63 

next  passed  the  Bishop  ranch,  later  known  as  the  Beers  ranch, 
next  the  well-known  Lou  Baker  road  ranch  and  stage  station, 
dreaded  on  account  of  its  frequent  Indian  attacks.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Lou  Baker  seemed  to  be  out  of  place  here.  They  were 
both  so  good  and  homelike.  The  best  was  never  too  good  for 
any  one  who  stayed  at  this  ranch.  It  was  known  as  the 
O'Fallon  road  ranch.  Often  they  had  to  flee  to  save  them- 
selves from  capture  by  the  marauding  bands  of  Indians  (both 
Cheyenne  and  Sioux)  whose  excuse  was  to  hunt  buffalo  but  in 
reality  to  hunt  scalps  and  live  stock.  The  daredevil  stage 
driver,  pony  express  rider,  the  freighter  and  emigrant,  if 
living  to-day,  could  tell  of  some  narrow  escapes.  The  Califor- 
nia Trail  between  Fort  McPherson  and  Fort  Sedgwick,  if  its 
history  could  be  written  between  the  years  1849  and  1868, 
would  reveal  the  tragic  death  of  many  a  brave  man,  both 
civilian  and  soldier. 

Our  next  stopping  place  before  fording  the  South  Platte 
River  was  just  east  of  Fort  Sedgwick,  at  which  place  several 
companies  of  soldiers,  both  cavalry  and  infantry,  were  sta- 
tioned under  command  of  Major  O'Brien. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Bass  Becomes  Intolerable — Stuck  in   the  South  Platte  River — Red 
Cloud's  Threat — A  Visit  to  Spotted  Tail's  Daughter  s 
Grave — My  First  Chase  by  Indians — Tender- 
foot Takes  a  Stand — My  Fight 

ALTHOUGH  it  was  nearly  4:00  P.  m.  when  we  (the 
lead  team)  arrived  at  the  crossing,  our  Mr.  Bass,  now 
called  captain,  as  head  of  all  the  trains  traveling  with 
us,  gave  orders  to  commence  crossing.  The  river  was  nearly 
one-half  mile  wide  at  this  point  and  bank  full  of  dirty,  reddish 
colored  water.  The  clouds  were  dark  and  low  and  distant 
rumbling  of  thunder  could  be  heard,  streaks  of  sharp  light- 
ning shot  across  the  sky  and  the  wind  blew  in  short,  strong 
gusts.  Mr.  Bass  had  not  neglected  me  one  moment  since 
we  left  "Dobytown";  I  was  thinking  that  now  perhaps  he 
might  overlook  me,  when  a  sharp  voice  yelled  to  me  to  go  in 
with  the  first  team,  twelve  yoke  of  cattle  hitched  to  a  wagon, 
loaded  heavily  with  bacon,  flour,  sugar,  coffee,  salt,  crackers, 
etc.  Our  captain,  two  assistant  wagon  bosses  and  four  bull- 
whackers,  two  on  either  side  (I  had  the  lower  side),  started 
the  team  in  the  river  where  we  progressed  for  nearly  two  hun- 
dred yards,  when,  owing  to  the  pelting  rain  which  had  com- 
menced to  fall,  our  team  stopped  and  tried  to  turn  their 
backs  to  the  rain.  We  succeeded  in  getting  another  pull  but 
the  cattle  could  not  move  the  wagon  which  was  fast  settling 
in  the  quicksand.  Four  more  yoke  of  cattle  were  added 
and  another  pull  made,  when  some  of  the  chains  parted.  We 
then  doubled  the  chains  and  the  next  pull  they  got  tangled 
in  their  chains,  fell  down  and  would  have  drowned  had  we  not 
unhooked  the  chains  and  cut  the  ox-bows.  Two  of  the  yokes 
were  lost  at  this  time.  (Two  years  ago  they  were  found  in  the 
river  when  it  was  low;  the  iron  rusted  and  wood  rotted,  as 
would  naturally  be  expected  during  a  period  of  fifty  years. 
The  writer  presented  these  to  The  Nebraska  Historical  So- 

64 


Trails  of  Yesterday  65 

ciety  and  they  may  be  seen  there  in  Lincoln,  Nebraska.) 
Darkness  overtook  us ;  some  of  the  yokes  of  cattle  went  across 
the  river  dragging  their  chains  and  some  came  back  to  the 
main  herd  south  of  the  river.  When  we  left  the  wagon  in 
the  river  the  current  was  running  over  the  top  of  the  end  gate 
and  it  looked  as  if  it  might  disappear  entirely  before  daylight. 

Nearly  all  the  bullwhackers  went  up  to  the  Post  that  night 
and  many  got  drunk.  I  turned  into  my  blankets  wet  to  the 
skin  and  supperless.  About  three  o'clock  the  next  morning 
Captain  Bass  came  and  wakened  me  and  said  he  wished  I 
would  get  on  the  mule  tied  to  the  wagon,  cross  the  river  and 
bring  back  all  the  yoked  cattle  that  had  strayed  away  the  night 
before.  This  order,  with  some  misgivings  as  to  results,  I 
obeyed.  It  was  hardly  daylight  yet  and  I  could  not  see  the 
getting-out  place  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  It  was  my 
first  experience  in  water  on  mule-back.  I  had  been  told  many 
times  that  a  mule,  especially  if  he  could  not  touch  bottom 
with  his  feet  and  keep  the  top  of  his  back  dry,  became  the 
greatest  of  cowards  in  water  and  would  prefer  drowning  to 
swimming.  I  had  not  proceeded  far  when  I  had  the  time  of 
my  life  to  get  him  past  what  was  to  be  seen  of  the  top  of  the 
wagon  we  left  in  the  river  and  then  my  mule  went  down  and 
tried  to  roll  over  me  and  seemed  determined  to  commit  suicide 
by  drowning.  He  got  his  ears  full  of  water  and  hesitated 
some  time  as  to  whether  he  would  proceed  or  go  back  to  camp. 
The  only  way  I  could  coax  him  was  to  lead  him.  The  water 
most  of  the  way  across  was  up  to  my  breast,  but  in  a  few 
places  I  had  to  swim.  We  both  often  went  down  in  quick- 
sand. Two-thirds  of  the  way  across  the  water  became  shal- 
lower, averaging  about  three  feet  deep,  when  I  again  mounted 
and  soon  got  out.  I  found  five  yoke  of  cattle  grazing  peace- 
fully. After  rounding  them  up  and  fastening  the  chains  to 
the  yokes  I  soon  had  a  five-yoke  team  crossing  the  river,  which 
I  crossed  safely  without  dismounting,  my  mule  going  under 
only  once  on  the  return  trip. 

Having  found  the  ford  in  the  river,  by  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning  we  had  begun  in  earnest  to  cross  our  wagons;    and 


66  Trails  of  Yesterday 

our  captain,  aided  by  the  good  common  sense  of  the  different 
wagon  bosses  and  assistants,  had  learned  to  send  his  lightest 
wagons  over  first,  putting  perishable  goods,  such  as  sugar, 
flour,  salt,  beans  and  crackers,  on  top  of  canned  or  wet  goods. 
Captain  Bass  kept  me  in  the  river  all  day.  I  and  three  other 
bullwhackers  brought  seven  wagons  across — making  fourteen 
times  that  we  crossed  the  river  that  day.  We  usually  rode 
on  the  backs  of  our  steers  on  the  return  trip.  We  were  not 
through  crossing  all  the  wagons  in  our  different  trains  until 
the  night  of  the  third  day. 

Out  of  sympathy  for  a  Mormon  family  (a  poor  woman 
and  her  son)  pulling  a  cart,  I  allowed  the  woman  to  ride 
across  the  river  and  hitched  the  cart  behind  the  wagon,  the 
son  fording  the  river  with  me.  For  this  humane  act  I  received 
a  severe  cursing  from  Captain  Bass. 

For  several  days  after  crossing  the  South  Platte  River 
I  suffered  greatly.  The  skin  on  my  neck,  arms  and  body  was 
so  badly  sunburned,  blistered  and  irritated  by  my  heavy  woolen 
shirt  that  I  was  in  misery  both  night  and  day.  Had  my  flesh 
been  seared  by  a  hot  iron  I  could  not  have  suffered  more. 

We  crossed  the  twenty-eight  mile  ridge  between  the  South 
and  the  North  valleys,  making  a  dry  camp  one  night.  We 
passed  Mud  Springs,  a  telegraph  and  small  stage  station.  We 
also  passed  Chimney  Rock  and  Court  House  Rock,  pictures  of 
which  are  here  given.  Nature  seems  to  have  done  her  work 
well.  Court  House  Rock  has  quite  a  history.  It  is  claimed 
that  a  band  of  outlaws  were  followed  from  the  Gallatin 
valley  mines  by  Captain  Bailey's  company  of  mountaineers, 
were  overtaken,  tried  and  found  guilty  and  twelve  of  them 
shot  to  death  on  the  top  of  this  Court  House  Rock,  hence 
its  name.  Could  a  true  history  of  it  be  written  it  would  make 
very  interesting  reading.  The  storms  of  many  years  have 
beaten  upon  it  and  worn  much  of  it  away  but  there  is  yet  much 
left  of  interest  for  the  traveler,  especially  if  he  succeeds  in 
climbing  to  its  top. 

We  passed  "Brown's  Road  Ranch"  west  of  Scott's  Bluff. 
This  ranch  was  kept  by  "Stuttering  Brown,"  to  whom  I  may 


Courtesy  of  E.  H.  Barbour ,  University  of  Nebraska 
Chimney  Rock 


Courtesy  of  A.  E.  Sheldon,  Nebraska  State  Historical  Societj 

i  House  and  Jail  Rocks 


Trails  of  Yesterday  67 

refer  later  in  this  book.  We  finally  wended  our  way,  through 
a  crooked,  narrow  pass,  through  Scott's  Bluff. 

Two  miles  west  of  these  bluffs,  standing  on  the  south  bank 
of  the  North  Platte  River,  was  Fort  Mitchell,  a  two-company 
adobe  post.  Directly  south  of  this,  across  the  overland  trail, 
stood  the  Mitchell  Road  ranch  and  stage  station  kept  at  this 
time  by  John  Sibson.  This  will  also  be  referred  to  later. 
Twelve  miles  west  of  this  we  passed  Horse  Creek  ranch  kept 
by  Charles  Blunt.  Between  Blunt's  and  Antone  Reynolds' 
ranch,  I  remember  making  a  drive  late  in  the  night.  Some 
of  our  teams  got  scared  at  either  a  herd  of  buffalo,  a  pack 
of  wolves  or  sneaking  Indians  while  we  were  doubling  teams, 
pulling  over  sand  hills  at  the  west  end  of  the  Mitchell  bottom. 
Never  before  did  I  see  six-yoke  ox-teams  stampede  on  a  run 
with  loaded  wagons  containing  sixty  to  seventy  hundred 
pounds  of  dead  freight.  Some  fifteen  teams  did  this  for 
nearly  half  a  mile,  going  faster  than  their  drivers  could  run. 
I  don't  see  how  we  escaped  being  run  over.  I  was  sitting  in 
my  wagon  half  dozing  when  my  team  started  with  others  in 
front  and  in  rear  of  it.  Hanging  on  to  the  wagon  bow  saved 
me  from  being  thrown  out  of  the  wagon,  from  which  at  the 
first  chance  I  jumped,  just  clearing  the  wheels  of  my  own 
wagon  and  causing  the  team  of  the  next  wagon  to  shy  from  me 
as  I  struck  the  ground  and  commenced  to  scramble  to  my  feet 
to  get  out  of  the  way.  The  noise  made  by  this  little  stampede 
was  not  unlike  the  passing  of  a  vigorous  cyclone.  The  only 
damage  done  was  the  upsetting  of  one  wagon  and  the  crippling 
of  a  steer. 

We  passed  the  Reynolds'  and  the  Jules  Coffee  road 
ranches  and  many  stage  coaches  that  the  Indians  had  chased 
and  in  some  cases  attacked.  We  crossed  the  Laramie  River 
at  Fort  Laramie.  Here  the  two  ox-trains  owned  by  Majors 
Russell  and  Waddell,  that  had  joined  us  at  Fort  McPherson, 
remained.  They  were  loaded  with  general  merchandise  and 
provisions — a  rush  order  intended  for  Red  Cloud's  band  of 
Sioux  Indians  said  to  number  2500  warriors  who  had  left 
Fort  Laramie  a  few  days  before  we  arrived,  swearing  venge- 


68  Trails  of  Yesterday 

ance  against  the  whites;  and  incoming  freight  trains,  stage 
coaches  and  pony  express  riders  testified  to  the  fact  that  they 
were  making  their  word  good.  Red  Cloud's  great  speech  on 
that  occasion  before  the  Indian  Commission  closed  with  these 
words:  "We  have  given  you  the  buffalo  land  of  the  Shallow 
River  (the  Platte)  for  your  iron  horse  road  and  will  keep  our 
people  back  and  protect  you.  You  have  promised  to  save  our 
hunting  lands  to  the  north  of  us  but  by  sending  these  soldiers 
now  on  the  march  into  our  hunting  grounds  you  are  acting 
the  lie.  I  will  take  my  people  back.  We  will  fight  you  every 
mile  of  the  way  to  the  Big  Horn.  We  will  let  your  mile- 
stones be  the  graves  of  your  dead.  You  have  lied  to  us  and 
have  now  nothing  to  expect  of  us  but  war !  war !  war ! !" 
Red  Cloud  then  assembled  his  people  of  about  2500  to  3000 
and  left  Fort  Laramie  that  same  day.  How  well  he  kept  his 
promise  in  giving  war  is  a  matter  of  history.  The  war  began 
immediately  and  did  not  end  until  the  white  troops  were 
driven  out  of  the  country.  He  and  many  of  his  followers 
were  in  active  hostilities  from  the  latter  part  of  June,  1866, 
until  the  fall  of  1 87 1.  The  following  is  a  truthful  sketch 
of  his  career. 

RED   CLOUD,   THE    MAN   OF   200   BATTLES 

A  young  Oglala  chief  of  the  Sioux  nation  dashed  across  the  Dakota 
prairie,  followed  by  a  band  of  youthful  braves  who  had  chosen  him  as  their 
leader.  From  the  chief's  shoulders  waved  a  scarlet  blanket.  Some  poetic 
onlooker,  observing  the  foremost  rider's  fiery-colored  shoulder  covering,  said: 
"He  looks  like  a  flying  red  cloud." 

The  speech  pleased  the  young  chief.  From  that  time  he  was  known  as 
Maq-pelu-ta — Red  Cloud. 

Red  Cloud  was  born  in  1818.  He  was  of  obscure  birth;  but  by  sheer 
genius  for  warfare  and  leadership  soon  made  himself  a  sub-chief.  His  early 
wars  were  waged  against  the  Pawnees,  Crows  and  other  tribes,  who  hated 
the  fierce  Sioux.  Then,  in  1848, — already  a  noted  warrior — he  began  a  conflict 
with  the  white  men  that  raged  off  and  on  for  more  than  thirty  years.  During 
much  of  that  period  Red  Cloud  was  practically  the  war  lord  of  Nebraska, 
Dakota,  Kansas  and  large  parts  of  Iowa,  Wyoming,  Montana  and  Minnesota. 

Pioneers  began  to  invade  his  realm.  Many  of  them  were  white  men  of 
the  most  daring,  lawless  sort  and  some  did  not  scruple  to  cheat,  rob  or  even 
kill  any  Indian  who  crossed  their  path.  Red  Cloud  regarded  these  newcomers 
as  a  hostile  tribe  and  treated  them  as  such.  The  white  man  slaughtered  the 
buffaloes  and  other  game  and  trampled  on  their  ancient  customs.  Red  Cloud 
and  his  braves  retaliated  by  slaying  some  of  these  "undesirable  citizens"  and 
declaring  death-war  upon  the  rest. 


~<a 


Trails  of  Yesterday  69 

FIGHTS  AGAINST  FEARFUL  ODDS 

The  government  rushed  to  the  protection  of  its  settlers.  Red  Cloud  now 
found  himself  opposed  to  trained  soldiers  instead  of  lawless  frontiersmen.  But 
he  fought  on  as  fearlessly  as  ever  against  these  greater  odds. 

A  body  of  regulars  was  sent  to  garrison  Fort  Phil  Kearny  in  Wyoming. 
On  December  22,  1866,  Red  Cloud,  with  a  band  of  Sioux,  attacked  a  foraging 
party  from  the  fort.  Captain  Fetterman,  with  one  hundred  soldiers  and 
citizens,  was  sent  out  to  the  party's  rescue.  Red  Cloud's  savages,  in  a 
terriffic  battle,  killed  Fetterman  and  every  one  of  his  men. 

Encouraged  by  this  feat,  Red  Cloud  next  attacked  a  detachment  of 
soldiers  under  Major  Powell,  who  were  crossing  the  prairies  with  a  consign- 
ment of  metal  wagon  bodies.  Using  these  wagon  bodies  for  bullet-proof 
fortification,  the  troops  defended  themselves  so  gallantly  that  Red  Cloud  could 
make  no  headway  against  them.  Again  and  again  he  led  his  warriors  across 
the  open  ground  in  a  wild  charge  against  the  wagon  fort.  And  every  time 
the  soldiers'  quick,  unerring  volleys  emptied  dozens  of  saddles  and  sent  the 
Indians  reeling  back.  Red  Cloud  lost  more  than  300  men  in  this  fight  before 
he  would  consent  to  withdraw  out  of  reach  of  the  deadly  hail  of  bullets. 

Some  of  the  older  Sioux  chiefs  wanted  to  yield  to  the  government  and  to 
sign  a  peace  treaty.  Red  Cloud  was  asked  to  join  them.  He  replied  furiously: 
"No!  I  want  war!"  The  more  valiant  young  warriors  echoed  his  defiant 
shout.  And  war  they  had  for  years  thereafter.  Red  Cloud  kept  the  frontier 
ablaze  with  excitement. 

Among  the  famous  soldiers  who  fought  against  him  from  time  to  time 
were  Generals  Miles,  Sheridan,  Crook,  Terry  and  Custer.  More  than  once 
he  proved  too  wily  for  the  best  of  them.  But  one  leader,  be  he  ever  so  inspired, 
cannot  with  6000  savages  defy  a  whole  country  forever.  So,  in  course  of  time, 
Red  Cloud  and  his  braves  were  cooped  up  on  a  reservation.  But  again  and 
again  they  broke  out,  committing  fearful  ravages  among  the  settlements,  and 
were  brought  back  to  the  agency  only  to  burst  forth  again  at  the  first  chance. 

GIVES  UP  UNEQUAL  STRIFE 

When  Sitting  Bull,  in  1876,  in  the  campaign  which  cost  Custer's  life, 
went  on  the  warpath,  Red  Cloud  prepared  to  join  the  renowned  Medicine  Man ; 
but  General  Crook  swooped  down  upon  his  band  just  as  they  were  making 
ready  to  start,  took  away  their  ponies  and  made  Red  Cloud  a  prisoner.  Later 
the  government  offered  to  pay  $28,000.00  for  these  ponies  and  for  other 
confiscated  weapons  if  Red  Cloud  would  sign  a  treaty. 

This  was  in  1880.  Red  Cloud  was  62  years  old.  His  long,  tireless  years 
of  warfare  had  resulted  in  the  thinning  out  of  his  warrior  band  and  the  loss 
of  thousands  of  miles  of  his  territory.  Whereas,  the  white  men  in  the  West 
were  every  year  more  numerous.  He  saw  the  bitter  hopelessness  of  it  all  and 
consented  to  sign  what  he  called  a  "peace  paper". 

The  old  savage  had  been  in  200  pitched  battles  during  his  stormy  career. 
Now — penniless,  old,  helpless — he  laid  down  his  weapons.  Nor  did  he,  out- 
wardly at  least,  ever  break  the  treaty  he  had  so  reluctantly  made.  In  more 
than  one  subsequent  Indian  outbreak  he  was  suspected  of  having  stirred  up  the 
local  braves  to  revolt;  but  nothing  could  be  proven  against  him. 

And  so  he  lived  on,  at  government  expense,  without  a  shadow  of  his 
former  greatness,  becoming  at  last  blind,  deaf  and  almost  childish.— Albert 
Pay  son  Terhune. 

On  leaving  Fort  Laramie  strict  orders  were  issued  to  every 
member  of  each  train  to  be  eternally  on  the  watch  against 


70  Trails  of  Yesterday 

sudden  attacks  and  never  to  fire  a  shot  night  or  day  unless 
attacked  by  Indians  and  that  the  moment  a  shot  was  fired, 
every  man  must  be  ready  for  any  emergency.  Guards  were 
doubled  as  well  as  night  herders  around  the  cattle. 

While  these  precautions  kept  the  captain,  wagon  bosses 
and  assistants  and  every  man  in  camp  busy,  the  captain  did 
not  relax  his  supervision  over  me,  making  life  very  uncom- 
fortable. Several  times  my  better  nature  rebelled  against 
carrying  out  his  profane  orders.  Why  not  stop  it  and  assert 
my  manhood?  Better  die  than  lead  such  a  dog's  life.  I  was 
called  on  in  every  emergency,  no  matter  whether  it  was  my 
proper  turn  or  not. 

The  day  after  passing  Fort  Laramie  I  was  called  upon 
to  find  several  steers  that  had  strayed  from  the  herd  and  was 
given  the  same  contrary,  stubborn,  old  mule  and  told  by 
Captain  Bass  to  go  and  find  them  and  not  to  come  back  with- 
out them.  After  riding  down  the  river  a  couple  of  miles 
I  came  to  a  quaking  asp  grove  in  a  bend  of  the  river.  Think- 
ing the  missing  steers  might  be  in  there,  I  dismounted  and 
tied  the  mule  to  a  tree  on  the  edge  of  the  grove,  with  dif- 
ficulty working  my  way  in  afoot  through  the  heavy  under- 
brush. I  had  proceeded  some  two  hundred  yards  when 
I  heard  breaking  of  branches  which  assured  me  that  I 
was  on  the  trail  of  the  steers.  I  proceeded  farther,  when  I 
came  face  to  face  with  a  big,  black  bear.  It  did  not  take  me 
long  to  reach  my  mule  and  I  had  scarcely  mounted  when 
the  bear  appeared.  I  can  still  see  that  mule  trying  to  get 
away.  I  could  neither  guide  nor  hold  him  for  nearly  a  mile 
down  the  river.  About  an  hour  later  I  passed  this  place 
with  the  missing  steers  but  "Mr.  Mule"  had  lost  all  confidence 
in  me  and  must  have  thought  I  was  putting  up  a  job  on  him 
in  taking  him  back  to  where  we  left  the  bear.  I  had  great 
trouble  in  getting  him  past  the  spot  without  going  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  right  of  it.  I  finally  arrived  at  camp 
just  as  it  was  getting  ready  to  move. 

In  crossing  the  bad  lands  west  of  Fort  Laramie  we  broke 
several  wagon  wheels  and  I  was  hurried  back  to  Fort  Laramie 


Trails  of  Yesterday  71 

with  a  yoke  of  cattle,  hitched  to  a  light  wagon  containing  the 
broken  wheels,  with  strict  orders  to  get  the  wheels  repaired 
as  quickly  as  possible  or  buy  new  ones.  Being  loaded  with 
government  freight  I  had  no  trouble  in  getting  an  order  from 
General  Palmer,  the  commanding  officer,  to  the  blacksmith  to 
work  all  night  fixing  the  wheels,  which  were  ready  for  me 
by  daylight  the  next  morning. 

By  sunrise  I  was  passing  the  cemetery  where  Shen-tag-a- 
lisk's  (Spotted  Tail's)  daughter,  Ah-ho-op-pa,  (the  Sioux 
name  for  wheaten  flour),  had  recently  been  buried.  I  have 
read  several  stories  of  the  life  and  death  of  this  beautiful 
and  sensible  Indian  maiden,  who,  it  is  said,  died,  on  the 
Powder  River,  of  consumption  but  in  reality  of  a  broken 
heart.  Having  fallen  in  love  with  a  young  officer  who  did  not 
return  her  affection,  Ah-ho-op-pa  had  become  so  attached  to 
the  whites  that  while  on  her  deathbed  she  exacted  a  promise 
from  her  father,  Shen-tag-a-lisk,  that  he  would  never  go  to 
war  with  the  whites  again. 

I  could  write  an  interesting  story  of  this  love  affair  but 
space  will  not  permit. 

Shen-tag-a-lisk,  or  Spotted  Tail,  kept  this  promise  and 
some  years  later,  in  1879,  saved  the  writer's  life  at  Rosebud 
Agency,  where  Spotted  Tail  later  died  and  where  an  imposing 
shaft  marks  this  great  chief's  grave  in  the  Rosebud  cemetery 
at  that  agency. 

Anxious  to  see  where  Spotted  Tail's  daughter  was  buried, 
I  stopped  my  team  in  passing  the  cemetery.  I  had  no  trouble 
in  finding  the  grave,  which  was  marked  by  four  posts  about 
seven  feet  high  above  the  ground.  A  platform  was  nailed 
to  the  posts  and  upon  this  rested  the  coffin  covered  with  a  red 
blanket.  On  the  blanket  were  laid  many  Indian  trinkets — 
beads,  paints,  moccasins,  looking  glasses,  shawls  and  leggings. 
To  the  two  north  posts  were  nailed  the  heads  of  her  two  white 
ponies  and  their  tails  to  the  south  posts. 

While  viewing  this  I  was  suddenly  surrounded  by  a  dozen 
or  more  Sioux  warriors,  who  angrily  asked  what  I  was  doing 
there.    I  told  them  I  was  looking  at  Spotted  Tail's  daughter's 


72  Trails  of  Yesterday 

grave.  I  had  picked  up  a  few  stones  and  pebbles  lying  on  the 
ground  under  the  remains  and  an  Indian  snatched  them  out  of 
my  hands  and  struck  me  over  the  head  with  his  bow.  I  told 
them  as  best  I  could  that  I  meant  and  had  done  no  harm, 
when  several  of  them  commenced  to  beat  me  with  their  quirts, 
bows  and  arrows.  I  could  not  defend  myself  from  the  blows 
of  so  many  and  jumped  into  my  wagon  and  started  my  yoke 
of  cattle  on  a  run.  They  nearly  frightened  the  cattle  to 
death,  sticking  arrows  in  their  sides  to  see  them  twist  and  run. 
At  the  same  time  they  continued  to  whip  me  over  the  head, 
back  and  shoulders,  tearing  my  shirt  off  me.  They  chased 
me  thus  over  two  miles  and  I  believe  they  would  have  killed 
me  had  I  not  taken  refuge  in  a  Mormon  train  that  was  on  its 
way  to  Salt  Lake  City.  I  meant  no  disrespect  but  I  could  not 
make  the  Indians  see  it  that  way.  My  fellow  bullwhackers 
hardly  knew  me  when  I  got  to  camp  and  the  most 
pleased  man  I  ever  saw  was  my  constant  caretaker,  Captain 
Bass.  He  would  have  liked  to  have  sent  me  back  on  a  second 
trip. 

I  could  write  a  big  chapter  of  this  Captain  Bass's  mean, 
brutish  ways,  which  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  tolerate  no 
longer. 

A  couple  of  nights  after  my  whipping  by  the  Indians  we 
had  just  formed  corrals  for  the  night.  I  had  unyoked  my 
team.  Many  of  the  other  teamsters  had  not  commenced  to 
unyoke  theirs.  The  captain  rode  up  to  me  and  ordered  that 
I  take  the  cattle  to  water  before  I  picked  up  my  yokes  and 
chains.  I  mildly  remonstrated  and  asked  him  how  I  could 
do  so  when  many  of  the  teams  were  not  unyoked.  He  an- 
swered with  an  oath  and  told  me  to  do  what  he  said.  I  made 
no  reply  but  walked  to  where  my  lead  yoke  lay  on  the  ground, 
unhooked  the  chain  and  proceeded  to  pick  it  up.  He  was 
watching  me  and  immediately  rode  up,  whipped  out  his 
revolver,  leveled  it  at  my  head  and  with  a  bad  oath  accom- 
panied by  an  expression  still  common  in  some  parts  of  the 
West,  tried  his  best  to  push  the  end  of  his  revolver  into  my 
mouth  and  commanded  me  to  drop  that  yoke.     I  threw  the 


Trails  of  Yesterday  73 

yoke  to  the  ground  and  told  the  captain  what  I  thought  of 
him ;  that,  although  I  had  done  everything  in  my  power  to 
please  him,  there  were  many  things  I  ought  not  to  have  done ; 
that  he  had  imposed  on  me  ever  since  we  left  old  Fort  Kear- 
ny; that  although  he  was  captain  of  the  entire  outfit,  and 
his  uncle  owned  the  train,  yet — even  though  he  was  big  enough 
to  whip  me — I  was  not  afraid  of  him  and  was  willing  to  fight 
him  any  way  he  chose,  with  guns,  revolvers,  knives  or  in  a  fair 
fist  fight.  By  this  time  many  of  the  bullwhackers  had  gathered 
around  us  and  were  urging  me  on  by  yelling:  "Go  for  him, 
Bratt !  Go  for  him,  Bratt ! !  We'll  stay  by  you."  All  the 
outfit,  including  the  wagon  masters  and  assistants,  hated  him. 
Some  of  these  men  pulled  him  off  his  mule  and  took  his  revol- 
vers and  knife  from  him.  This  done,  I  threw  my  revolvers 
and  bowie  knife  on  the  ground  and  in  a  few  seconds  we  were 
both  fighting  in  "dead  earnest"  and  I  was  soon  getting  the 
worst  of  it.  He  not  only  punished  me  with  his  fists  but  jabbed 
his  spurs  in  my  neck.  He  was  a  giant  compared  to  me.  The 
men  pulled  him  off  me  once  but  I  went  at  him  again  and  finally 
got  the  lobe  of  his  left  ear  between  my  teeth  and,  though  I  am 
sorry  to  tell  it,  I  did  not  let  go  until  I  spit  a  part  of  his  ear 
on  the  ground.  He  finally  got  up  amid  the  taunts  and  jeers  of 
the  crowd  of  bullwhackers,  picked  up  his  revolvers  and  knife, 
put  a  dirty,  old,  red  handkerchief  to  his  bleeding  ear  and 
started  for  his  wagon,  swearing  he  would  fix  me  yet.  I  came 
out  of  the  fight  badly  used  up,  my  face  covered  with  blood, 
some  teeth  missing,  but  with  many  congratulations  from  my 
fellow  bullwhackers  who  promised  to  stand  by  me  should  he 
tackle  me  again.  This,  I  think,  prevented  him  from  carrying 
out  his  threat  later,  since  he  saw  the  sympathy  of  nearly  all 
the  men  was  with  me,  and  instead  of  abusing  me,  he  became 
more  considerate  and  let  me  alone  the  rest  of  the  trip. 
Whether  this  was  caused  by  shame  or  fear  of  the  further  ill 
will  of  the  men  in  the  different  outfits,  I  don't  know.  For  the 
present  I  shall  leave  him  to  heal  up  his  notched  left  ear. 
Enough  to  say  that  I  picked  up  my  yokes  and  chains  before 
taking  the  steers  to  water. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Cheyenne  Indians  Visit  our  Camp — Dull  Knife  and  his  Band  become 

Enraged — The  Peace  Pipe  is  Smoked — A  Quart  of  Whiskey 

Poured   down    Tenderfoot — A    Herd   of  Five 

Thousand  Buffalo — Attacked  by  the 

Arapahoes 

AFTER  crossing  the  North  Platte  River  at  Fort  Casper, 
we  met  some  returning  horse  and  mule  trains  and  one 
stage  coach,  the  driver  of  which  and  remaining  two 
passengers  turned  over  to  us  for  burial  the  body  of  one  dead 
passenger  who  had  been  instantly  killed  that  morning  while 
fighting  a  band  of  Indians  who  were  chasing  the  coach.  We 
dug  a  hole  on  a  sandy  knoll  near  the  trail,  wrapped  the  remains 
in  a  blanket  and  laid  them  gently  to  rest,  marking  the  head  of 
the  mound  with  part  of  a  cracker  box  lid,  on  which  was  written 
in  pencil:  "John  Harrison.  Killed  by  Indians  August  2, 
1866,  while  en  route  by  stage  coach  to  St.  Joseph,  Missouri." 

We  had  come  this  far  without  being  attacked  by  Indians 
except  for  the  whipping  the  writer  received  east  of  Fort 
Laramie  when  curiosity  got  the  better  of  judgment.  We  were 
still  very  watchful,  both  night  and  day.  We  might  have 
thought  this  double  guard  duty  unnecessary  had  it  not  been 
for  what  we  saw  and  heard  from  travelers  returning  in  the 
stage  coaches  and  freighters. 

It  was  near  here  that,  after  breaking  camp  one  morning 
and  traveling  some  three  miles,  we  noticed  grazing  in  the 
hills  about  a  mile  distant  on  the  left  a  bunch  of  ponies.  We 
were  ordered  to  halt,  while  wagon  bosses  and  assistants,  all 
mounted,  and  some  twelve  or  fourteen  of  us  bullwhackers 
afoot,  all  well  armed,  started  towards  the  ponies.  The  hill 
was  not  a  high  one  but  was  bare  of  sagebrush  and  greasewood 
and  sloped  gently  toward  the  trail  on  which  our  wagons  were 
standing,  which  caused  me  to  wonder  how  we  afoot  could 
defend  ourselves  in  case  of  an  Indian  attack.     The  mounted 

74 


Trails  of  Yesterday  75 

men  were  far  in  the  lead  of  us  and  it  was  not  very  long  before 
we  saw  them  reach  the  top  of  the  hill  and  return  as  fast  as 
their  horses  could  run.  This  caused  us  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat 
toward  our  wagons.  On  catching  up  with  us  the  mounted  men 
informed  us  that  there  were  several  hundred  ponies  grazing 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hill  and  a  valley  full  of  Indian  tepees 
and  Indians,  who,  as  yet,  apparently  had  not  discovered  us. 
With  this  knowledge,  all  in  the  different  outfits,  even  to  our 
friend,  the  captain,  were  willing  and  anxious  to  resume  our 
morning  drive,  not  a  few  of  us  frequently  casting  a  watchful 
eye  back  toward  the  hill  where  the  same  bunch  of  ponies 
continued  grazing. 

We  had  proceeded  some  two  miles  over  a  rather  level 
country  when  we  came  to  a  deep  canon  (said  to  be  a  dry 
branch  of  the  Cheyenne  River) ,  and  here  the  recent  high  water 
had  almost  obliterated  the  trail  and  left  it  practically  im- 
passable. There  was  nothing  to  do  but  go  into  camp  and 
commence  fixing  the  crossing.  About  the  time  dinner  was 
called  two  mounted,  fine-looking  Indians  came  within  shouting 
distance  of  the  camp  and  in  pigeon  English  and  their  native 
language  told  us  they  were  good  Cheyennes;  Sioux  and  Arap- 
ahoes  were  bad,  but  they — throwing  back  their  blankets  and 
placing  their  hands  over  their  hearts — were  "heap  good." 
A  short  consultation  was  held  between  Captain  Bass  and  the 
different  wagon  bosses.  The  former  favored  inviting  them 
into  camp,  while  all  the  latter  opposed  it.  Notwithstanding 
this,  Captain  Bass  went  out  and  shook  hands  with  the  two 
Indians  and  brought  them  into  camp,  where  they  were  soon 
surrounded  by  the  bullwhackers  who  asked  them  many  ques- 
tions as  to  their  camp,  tribe,  number,  where  they  came  from, 
where  they  were  going,  whether  they  had  any  squaws  and 
papooses,  ponies,  buckskins  or  moccasins.  They  said  they 
were  Cheyennes,  were  going  south  to  hunt  buffaloes  and  visit 
their  people,  had  their  squaws  and  papooses,  heaps  of  ponies, 
buckskins,  robes  and  moccasins,  and  pointed  toward  the  bluff 
or  hills  where  we  had  seen  the  ponies  grazing.     On  looking 


76  Trails  of  Yesterday 

through  the  field  glasses  in  that  direction,  we  noticed  many 
objects  on  the  hillsides.  These  objects  were  neither  ponies, 
sagebrush,  greasewood  nor  rocks  and  when  Captain  Bass 
told  the  two  Indians  to  bring  their  Indians  into  our  camp,  one 
of  the  Indians  went  some  distance  from  our  wagons,  obviously 
to  get  an  unobstructed  view.  Upon  waving  his  blanket  three 
times  the  objects  on  the  hillside  sprang  to  their  feet  and 
scattered,  some  going  from  us  over  the  hill,  presumably  for 
their  ponies,  others  coming  afoot  to  our  camp  into  which 
they  came  stringing  in  all  manner  of  fashion — some  mounted, 
some  afoot,  and  others,  squaws  and  papooses  lying  or  sitting 
on  tepee  poles  dragged  by  their  ponies,  until  there  were  about 
eight  hundred  or  more  bucks,  squaws  and  papooses.  The 
total  number  of  whites  in  our  camp  was  less  than  two  hundred, 
but  all  were  pretty  well  armed  with  revolvers,  guns  and  bowie 
or  butcher  knives. 

It  is  seldom  one  meets  a  similar  bunch  of  men  of  this  class 
and  character  without  having  one  or  more  bad  men  among 
them.  Nearly  all  drank  when  they  could  get  liquor,  used  pro- 
fane language,  smoked  or  chewed  tobacco,  and  gambled.  I 
regret  to  say  that  I,  too,  had  commenced  to  swear  and  this,  to- 
gether with  my  fight  with  Captain  Bass,  gave  me  better  stand- 
ing and  more  respect  in  the  eyes  of  my  bullwhacker  comrades; 
still  I  was  looked  upon  as  a  tenderfoot  because  I  had  not 
adopted  their  other  vices.  When  invited  to  join  in  their  games 
or  listen  to  their  obscene  stories  I  would  beg  to  be  excused 
and  steal  away  to  my  wagon  where  I  would  read  again  and 
again  the  "Harper's  Monthly"  given  me  at  "Dobytown"  by 
good  Dr.  Miller. 

The  Indians  were  enjoying  their  friendly  visit  with  us, 
after  having  filled  their  stomachs  with  our  boiled  beans, 
bacon,  pone  bread  and  coffee,  which  the  cooks  of  the  different 
outfits  had  provided  in  plenty.  Much  swapping  and  trading 
had  been  done  in  the  purchase  of  buffalo  robes,  elk  and  deer 
skins,  moccasins,  etc.,  for  money  and  other  considerations. 
Everything  was  going  along  nicely.     By  giving  him  my  plate 


Trails  of  Yesterday  77 

of  dinner  in  addition  to  what  he  had  already  eaten  at  other 
outfits,  I  became  well  acquainted  with  Dull  Knife,  the  head 
chief  of  this  band  of  Cheyennes.  Suddenly  the  old  chief 
dashed  his  plate  and  what  little  there  was  on  it  to  the  ground, 
mounted  his  pony,  and  commenced  to  talk  to  his  people  in 
his  own  language,  the  substance  of  his  words  was  that  one 
of  these  whites  had  stolen  a  buckskin  from  one  of  the  squaws 
and  he  not  only  asked  the  return  of  the  skin  but  wanted  the 
man  also.  Our  brave  captain  suggested  that  this  request  be 
granted,  but  some  others  suggested  we  give  up  the  captain, 
who  soon  disappeared,  to  be  found  later  after  considerable 
search,  pretending  to  be  busy  writing  in  his  wagon,  with 
cracker  boxes  piled  up  in  front  and  rear,  thus  hiding  him  from 
view. 

I,  like  some  others,  had  commenced  to  yoke  my  cattle  but 
our  assistant  wagon  boss,  Green,  ordered  us  to  stop  and  pre- 
pare to  fight.  All  was  excitement  and  commotion.  It  took 
but  a  short  time  for  the  Indians  to  prepare  for  us.  The 
squaws,  papooses  and  old  men  were  sent  to  the  rear  while  the 
bucks,  nearly  all  mounted, — some  in  the  corrals,  others  out- 
side— a  number  with  guns  and  revolvers  but  the  majority 
with  bows  and  arrows  (some  arrows  poisoned),  all  strung 
and  ready  for  action — were  all  eagerly  awaiting  the  word  to 
attack.  Dull  Knife  and  his  sub-chiefs  insisted  that  the  man 
who  stole  the  skin  be  given  up  and  had  we  not  hid  him 
under  some  cracker  boxes  in  one  of  the  wagons,  the  Indians 
would  have  killed  him  quickly  and  the  squaws,  young  and 
old,  standing  directly  behind  the  mounted  bucks  with  their 
knives  all  sharp,  would  have  quickly  finished  the  work  of 
scalping  and  mutilating  the  body. 

A  hasty  consultation  of  the  different  wagon  bosses  and 
assistants  was  held  and  it  was  determined  to  find  Mr.  Bass 
and  make  him  settle  the  trouble  since  he  had  brought  the 
Indians  into  camp  without  the  consent  of  the  others.  After 
pulling  away  the  cracker  boxes  Captain  Bass  was  soon  located 
in  his  wagon,  and  ordered  to  come  out  and  settle  the  matter. 


78  Trails  of  Yesterday 

Old  Dull  Knife,  who  had  six  scalps  dangling  from  his  belt — 
one  of  them  a  woman's — poked  his  head  into  Captain  Bass's 
wagon  and  called  that  gentleman  the  meanest  name  he  could 
think  of,  which  was  "Heap  Squaw,  big  white  chief."  Bass 
thought  his  time  had  come  and  shook  like  an  aspen  leaf  in  a 
breeze.  The  captain  finally  came  out  of  the  wagon  and  ap- 
pealed to  the  different  bosses  as  to  the  best  way  to  settle  the 
trouble.  They  frankly  told  him  to  settle  it  himself,  seeing 
there  was  no  way  out  of  it,  or  fight.  He  suggested  giving  the 
Indians  some  provisions,  but  the  other  bosses  did  not  concur 
in  this,  perhaps  fearing  later  complications.  The  buckskin 
was  returned  and  Bass  ordered  some  of  his  men  to  throw 
out  a  sack  of  coffee,  a  sack  of  sugar,  a  sack  of  beans,  a  sack  of 
bacon,  a  sack  of  salt  and  six  boxes  of  crackers.  When  Dull 
Knife  saw  him  hesitate  about  throwing  out  more  the  old  chief 
called  out,  "Heap  more !  Heap  more !"  and  Bass  told  the  men 
to  throw  out  more.  They  doubled  the  quantity,  but  this  did 
not  satisfy  the  Indians.  They  wanted  many  sacks  of  flour 
and  boxes  of  canned  goods.  Bass  checked  the  men  up  several 
times,  but  Dull  Knife,  a  good  judge  of  human  nature,  had 
him  scared  and  occasionally  would  talk  to  his  warriors,  who 
would  crowd  up  closer  and  put  on  a  bolder  front.  It  was  not 
until  the  Indians  had  nearly  a  wagonload  of  provisions — all 
government  property — lying  on  the  ground  that  they  were 
satisfied. 

This  incident  demonstrated  how  easy  it  was  for  a 
boss,  using  bad  judgment,  to  get  his  employers  into  trouble 
and  jeopardize  the  lives  of  his  men.  Had  Bass  followed  the 
advice  of  the  other  wagon  bosses  and  the  majority  of  the 
men  who  had  crossed  the  plains  and  dealt  with  Indians  before, 
he  would  not  have  gotten  us  into  this  scrape,  but  he  was  the 
nephew  of  the  man  who  owned  the  train  and  knew  it  all.  He 
was  now  letting  his  hair  grow  long.  The  large  notch  in  his  left 
ear  could  be  seen  when  the  wind  blew  his  hair  back,  but  he 
was  kinder  to  me. 

After  the  return  of  the  buckskin  and  present  of  the  provi- 


Trails  of  Yesterday  79 

sions  to  the  Indians,  they  lighted  and  passed  around  to  any 
one  who  would  smoke  it,  the  pipe  of  peace  and  everything 
was  again  peaceful  and  harmonious.  I  shook  hands  with 
old  Dull  Knife,  who,  taking  off  my  hat,  gave  me  to  understand 
that  after  three  nights'  sleep  we  would  be  in  the  Arapahoes' 
country  and  must  look  out  for  our  "Zip,"  meaning  our  scalps. 
Two  of  our  steers  died  at  this  camp,  which  gave  the  Indians 
an  additional  feast. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  we  pulled  out.  The 
crossing  of  the  gulch  had  been  fixed  and  after  letting  the 
first  few  wagons  down  by  hand  and  ropes  we  did  not  have 
much  trouble,  except  for  the  breaking  of  two  wagon  wheels. 
It  must  have  been  midnight  when  we  got  all  the  wagons 
across.  It  started  to  rain  shortly  after  and  at  daylight  the 
gully  was  a  raging  torrent,  full  from  bank  to  bank.  It 
drizzled  all  next  day  and  we  remained  in  camp  repairing 
our  broken  wheels  and  exchanging  visits  with  the  Cheyennes. 
Some  of  our  men  went  to  the  Indian  camp  on  special  invita- 
tion to  dine  with  them.  At  this  banquet  some  of  the  fattest 
and  choicest  dogs  were  killed,  cooked  and  served  a  la  mode. 

The  next  morning  we  continued  our  journey,  taking  a 
northwest  course,  leaving  Pumpkin  Butte  to  our  right.  For 
three  days  we  had  been  following  a  rather  indistinct  trail. 
We  had  had  three  sleeps  since  leaving  the  dry  fork  of  the 
Cheyenne  and  were  crossing  the  dry  bed  of  what,  at  certain 
seasons  of  the  year,  might  have  been  a  river  very  wide  and 
extremely  sandy,  so  sandy  that  we  had  to  double  teams  to 
cross  it.  We  had  all  but  eight  of  the  wagons  across  when 
a  small  party  of  Indians  (maybe  twenty),  mounted  and 
carrying  spears  in  addition  to  the  customary  bows  and  arrows, 
came  charging  at  breakneck  speed  out  of  the  adjacent  hills 
and  with  a  war  whoop  rode  close  up  to  the  eight  teams  and 
commenced  to  shoot  arrows  at  the  teamsters  and  the  cattle, 
sending  some  of  their  arrows  into  the  flanks  and  sides  of 
the  cattle.  This  lasted  for  a  few  minutes  until  the  men  with 
the  teams  retaliated  with  guns  and  revolvers,  when  the  In- 


80  Trails  of  Yesterday 

dians,  whom  we  took  to  be  Arapahoes,  judging  from  what 
Dull  Knife  told  us,  went  back  to  the  hills  as  fast  as  they  came 
and  were  out  of  range  of  the  guns  of  the  wagon  bosses, 
assistants  and  quite  a  lot  of  bullwhackers  who  had  crossed 
with  the  other  wagons  and  had  come  back  on  a  run  to  the 
aid  of  the  eight  teamsters  and  their  wagons. 

This  little  scare  served  to  make  us  more  vigilant.  Fail- 
ing to  get  water  for  our  stock,  we  drove  the  greater  part  of 
the  night.  This  was  hard  on  our  cattle  and  caused  us  to  lose 
several  by  death.  We  remained  in  camp  next  day,  digging 
quite  a  few  rifle  pits  for  protection  against  Indian  attacks, 
since  we  saw  a  number  of  Indians  watching  us  from  nearby 
hills.  Extra  herders  went  out  with  the  cattle  and  night  guards 
around  the  camps  were  doubled,  all  having  strict  orders  not  to 
fire  a  gun  or  revolver  except  in  an  Indian  attack. 

We  finally  crossed  the  Powder  River  at  old  Fort  Reno, 
which  place  I  shall  always  remember.  I  had  often  expressed 
my  disapproval  of  the  gambling  and  drinking  indulged  in 
by  my  fellow  bullwhackers  and  made  the  remark  that  I  had 
taken  two  drinks  of  whiskey  in  my  life — one  prescribed  for 
me  by  a  physician  at  Elizabeth  Port,  New  Jersey,  the  other 
on  the  levee  plank  at  Morganzie  in  the  bend  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Red  River  in  Louisiana — and  that  they  would  be  my  last. 
Some  of  the  bullwhackers  said  they  would  see  that  I  got  a 
third,  and  they  did.  Half  a  dozen  bullwhackers  seized  me 
that  night,  threw  me  down  and  forced  down  my  throat 
between  a  pint  and  a  quart  of  the  worst  old  road  ranch  whiskey 
that  I  ever  smelled.  The  result  was  that  I  had  to  be  hauled  in 
the  wagon  for  over  a  week.  For  several  days  it  was  a  serious 
question  as  to  whether  I  would  live  or  die.  The  men  who 
did  this  (I  knew  them  all)  became  alarmed,  and  were  greatly 
relieved  when  after  the  sixth  day  I  showed  some  signs  of 
rallying.  In  many  ways  they  manifested  their  regrets  at 
their  action  and  I  forgave  them.  Talk  about  Keeley  Cure! 
If  the  worst  drunkard  ever  got  a  dose  like  I  did,  he  would 
never  taste  another  drop. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  81 

At  one  point,  after  crossing  the  Powder  River,  we  had  to 
cut  one  of  our  ox-trains  in  two  to  allow  a  large  herd  of 
buffalo,  headed  southwest,  to  pass  us.  I  think  this  herd  was 
fully  a  quarter  of  a  mile  wide.  We  killed  several  and  had 
a  feast  of  buffalo  meat  for  several  days.  It  was  interesting 
to  observe  this  herd  of  buffalo  on  the  march.  There  were 
fully  five  thousand  in  the  band  which  traveled  in  a  flatiron 
shape.  They  were  led  by  a  large  male,  the  cows,  calves 
and  yearlings  on  the  inside,  protected  on  the  flanks  by  dry 
cows,  heifers  and  males  of  two  years  and  over,  thus  dis- 
playing a  wonderful  instinct  in  protecting  their  young. 

Our  trail  took  us  through  bad  and  good  country,  smooth 
and  rough.  A  good  quality  of  soft  coal  cropped  out  of  the 
banks  in  many  places  and  there  were  many  indications  of 
other  minerals  and  oil. 

The  Indians  now  began  to  show  themselves  in  larger 
numbers  and  some  continued  to  follow  us  in  the  rear  and  on 
both  flanks.  No  chances  were  taken.  The  cattle  were  herded 
in  separate  bunches  during  the  day  but  thrown  into  one  big 
herd  at  night  with  a  big  force  of  men  around  them,  both 
mounted  and  afoot.  A  strong  night  and  day  guard  all  well 
armed  was  kept  around  each  outfit  camp.  Every  precaution 
was  taken  to  avoid  an  ambush  or  surprise  by  the  Red  Skins, 
especially  if  traveling  through  a  rough  or  broken  country. 
Some  of  our  cattle  became  footsore  and  had  to  be  shod. 

We  had  passed  Smeed  Lake  and  were  nearing  Crazy 
Woman's  fork,  the  valley  of  which  was  covered  with  thick 
brush  and  considerable  timber.  The  actions  of  the  Indians 
caused  us  to  expect  an  attack  when  we  attempted  to  cross 
the  Crazy  Woman's  creek.  We  camped  some  distance  from 
the  creek  that  night  and  kept  all  cattle  and  horses  in  the  dif- 
ferent corrals  formed  by  the  wagons.  As  soon  as  it  was  dusk 
a  great  number  of  bullwhackers  in  charge  of  wagon  bosses 
and  assistants  went  to  certain  strategic  points  around  the  dif- 
ferent trains  and  dug  rifle  pits  and  threw  up  breastworks 
for  defense  in  case  of  Indian  attacks.     Every  man  in  the 


82  Trails  of  Yesterday 

different  camps  was  on  guard  duty  some  part  of  the  night. 
No  fires  were  kept  lighted  after  dark  and  every  man  was 
ready  to  shoot  at  command,  and  although  this  was  a  long, 
sleepless  night,  our  vigilance  probably  saved  us  from  attack 
and  maybe  a  bad  slaughter. 

The  different  wagon  bosses,  while  working  in  harmony, 
had  to  some  extent  deposed  Captain  Bass,  whose  actions  at 
the  Cheyenne  Dry  Fork  had  shaken  their  confidence  in  him 
as  a  chief. 

It  was  proposed  to  cross  the  Crazy  Woman's  fork  the 
next  day.  A  heavy  guard  was  thrown  out  along  the  creek 
bottom  to  protect  the  teams  and  teamsters  and  we  had  pulled 
many  large  stones  out  of  the  creek  on  one  side  or  the  other 
so  that  our  wagons  would  not  be  impeded  while  crossing. 
We  had  crossed  probably  forty  wagons  when  the  Indians 
began  to  close  in  on  us.  Our  guards  did  good  work  and 
more  than  one  Indian  was  sent  to  the  "Happy  Hunting 
Ground"  while  attempting  to  steal  his  way  through  the 
brush  to  pick  some  of  us  off.  Having  some  mounted  men 
to  help  us  bullwhackers  keep  the  cattle  moving  briskly,  we 
finally  commenced  to  send  the  teams  on  a  trot  through  the 
bottom,  and  even  through  the  creek  which  was  two  to  three 
and  one-half  feet  deep.  By  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  we 
had  crossed  all  teams  safely  except  for  the  breaking  of  two 
wheels  and  were  out  in  the  open  where  we  spent  another 
watchful  night.  Our  casualties  were  several  head  of  cattle 
wounded  and  three  men  struck  by  arrows.  Luckily,  the 
arrows  were  not  poisoned.  The  cattle  got  well  but  one  of 
the  men  died  from  blood  poison  after  three  days.  We  did 
everything  possible  to  save  him.  His  remains  were  carefully 
wrapped  in  a  blanket  and  tenderly  laid  in  a  deep  grave  by 
the  side  of  the  trail  and  another  piece  of  box  lid  had  written 
on  it:  "James  Edison.  Killed  by  Indians  while  crossing 
Crazy  Woman's  Fork  in  Jackson  Ox-train  September  4, 
1866." 

After  a  few  other  exciting  events,  with  no  more  loss  of 


Trails  of  Yesterday  83 

life,  we  arrived  at  our  destination  "Fourth  Company  Post," 
at  this  time  being  rapidly  changed  into  Fort  Phil  Kearny, 
by  which  name  it  was  later  better  known. 

The  poisoned  arrow  was  usually  poisoned  as  follows  for 
war  purposes:  The  Indians  would  take  a  fresh  deer  liver, 
fasten  it  to  a  long  pole,  and  then  go  to  certain  places  where 
they  knew  they  would  find  rattlesnakes  in  abundance. 

About  midday  the  rattlers  are  all  out  of  their  dens  and 
coiled  up  in  the  sunshine.  The  bucks  would  poke  the  first 
rattler  with  the  liver.  A  rattler,  unlike  common  snakes,  al- 
ways shows  fight  in  preference  to  escaping. 

The  snake  would  thus  repeatedly  strike  at  the  liver  with 
its  fangs  until  its  poison  was  all  used  up,  whereupon  it  would 
quit  striking  and  try  slowly  to  move  on.  The  bucks  would 
then  hunt  up  another  rattler  and  repeat  the  performance, 
keeping  up  the  work  until  the  liver  was  well  soaked  with 
snake  poison. 

The  pole  was  carried  home  and  fastened  somewhere  in 
an  upright  position  until  the  liver  became  as  dry  as  a  bone. 
The  liver  was  then  pounded  to  a  fine  powder  and  placed  in 
a  buckskin  bag,  to  be  used  as  needed  for  their  arrows.  This 
powder  would  stick  like  glue  to  any  moistened  surface. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Arrival  at  Fort  Phil   Kearny — Another   Controversy    with    Bass — 
Mr.  Bass  under  Arrest 

AFTER  reporting  the  arrival  of  the  different  trains  in 
our  outfit  to  the  Commander  of  the  Fort,  Colonel 
Carrington,  that  officer  ordered  us  into  camp  at  a 
certain  point  on  Piney  Creek  near  the  fort.  All  was  bustle 
and  excitement.  Hay,  wood  and  log  teams,  drawn  by  horses, 
mules  and  oxen,  came  and  went,  but  all  under  proper  cavalry 
escort,  since  Red  Cloud,  joined  by  other  hostile  Indians,  was 
making  his  threat  good.  The  stockade,  built  out  of  pine  logs 
twelve  feet  long,  set  endwise  in  the  ground  about  four  feet 
and  enclosing  about  forty  acres,  together  with  the  officers' 
and  men's  quarters  and  stables  for  the  horses  and  mules,  was 
being  rushed  to  completion  as  fast  as  possible  in  the  face  of 
hostile  Indians  who  raided  the  contractors'  teams  and  camps 
daily  and  kept  the  mechanics  and  carpenters  continually  in 
hot  water,  guessing  when  and  where  the  next  attack  would  be 
made.     Men  were  scarce  and  commanded  big  wages. 

The  second  day  after  our  arrival  we  commenced  to  unload 
our  train.  Mr.  Bass's  position  as  captain  gave  him  some 
prestige  over  the  others.  By  the  end  of  the  third  day  our 
train  of  supplies  was  unloaded  and  my  Missouri  friend,  the 
captain — the  nephew  of  his  uncle — with  his  disfigured  ear 
now  almost  completely  hidden  by  his  long  hair,  informed  the 
five  of  us  who  had  hired  to  take  our  discharge  here  that  he 
was  ready  to  settle  with  us.  He  left  me  until  the  last  when 
I  was  called  up  to  his  wagon  and  upon  being  informed  the 
amount  due  me  he  said  he  would  write  out  an  order,  or  what 
he  called  a  due  bill,  for  the  amount. 

He  had  already  settled  with  the  other  four  men  in  this 
way.  I  told  him  that  although  he  had  settled  that  way  with 
the  others,  I  could  not  accept  his  due  bill;  that  I  wanted  and 
must  have  the  cash.     I  considered  that  a  due  bill  on  Mr. 

84 


Trails  of  Yesterday  85 

Keith  of  Lexington,  Missouri,  over  one  thousand  miles 
distant  and  much  of  it  through  a  country  infested  with  hostile 
Indians — unless  I  could  cash  it  there — was  worthless  to  me. 
He  said  he  could  not  pay  me  the  money.  I  told  him  that  my 
contract  with  him  called  for  the  money  at  destination  point 
and  not  an  order  to  pay.  He  said  he  could  not  help  that  and 
would  give  me  cattle.  These  I  also  declined.  He  then  told 
me  that  was  all  he  could  and  would  do.  I  reminded  him 
that  I  had  already  had  a  mix-up  with  him  and  that  I  did  not 
want  others.  At  this  remark  I  could  not  help  looking  at  his 
left  ear.  On  leaving  him  I  told  him  I  would  expect  my 
money  by  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

During  the  evening  he  requested  the  men  he  had  settled 
with  to  try  to  get  me  to  accept  a  due  bill  like  theirs.  Ac- 
cordingly, Swank,  as  spokesman  for  himself  and  the  others, 
approached  me  and  said  he  had  made  several  bullwhacking 
trips  over  the  Smoky  Hill  trail,  that  he  had  always  been  paid 
this  way  and  never  lost  a  dollar  by  it.  I  replied  that  that  might 
all  be  true  and  asked  him  to  take  his  due  bill  into  the  sutler's 
store  and  ask  what  they  would  give  him  for  it.  He  did  so 
and  they  told  him  they  could  not  use  it  at  any  price  but  would 
take  it  for  collection  without  assuming  any  responsibility.  I 
had  sized  up  the  matter  rightly  and  was  more  determined 
than  ever  not  to  accept  one  of  those  due  bills  for  my  pay. 

All  this  time  Mr.  Bass  was  rushing  around  and  getting 
ready  to  pull  out  the  following  morning.  Ten  o'clock  came. 
He  seemed  to  be  busy  at  the  sutler's  store  and  appeared  to 
avoid  me. 

Determined  to  stand  on  my  rights  I  started  for  Colonel 
Carrington's  tent.  Before  reaching  it  I  heard  some  one  call 
me.  Turning  around  I  saw  it  was  Mr.  Bass,  who  had  evidently- 
been  watching  my  movements.  He  asked  me  to  wait  for 
him  and  on  joining  me,  asked  what  I  had  decided  to  do  about 
accepting  the  due  bill.  I  told  him  that  I  was  going  to  lay 
my  case  before  Colonel  Carrington  but  he  asked  me  to  go  to 
the  sutler's  store  with  him  and  told  me  he  would  do  his  best  to 
get  me  my  money,  even  if  he  had  to  sell  the  train.     He  said 


86  Trails  of  Yesterday 

if  I  would  promise  to  work  for  Mr.  Carter  in  the  hay  camp 
that  gentleman  would  advance  the  money  on  his  freight  bill 
to  pay  me.  I  would  promise  nothing  except  to  make  him 
pay  in  cash  what  he  owed  me.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  I 
had  my  money.  The  four  men  he  had  paid  in  due  bills 
demanded  their  money  but  he  refused  to  pay  them  as  he 
had  settled  with  them  and  held  their  receipts.  This  made 
them  angry. 

It  seems  that  Mr.  Bass  had  reported  to  the  quartermaster 
that  a  band  of  Cheyenne  Indians  had  attacked  our  train  and 
that  to  make  peace  with  them  and  save  what  he  had,  he  had 
given  them  the  provisions  and  stuff  he  was  short  on  his  bill 
of  lading;  and  this  on  his  statement  was  allowed  by  the 
quartermaster  on  his  freight  bill  and  a  voucher  was  issued 
accordingly  for  about  nineteen  hundred  dollars'  worth  of 
provisions.  Some  one  told  a  quartermaster  sergeant  the  facts. 
It  might  have  been  one  of  the  four  men  who  had  been  paid 
off  in  due  bills.  At  any  rate,  in  a  very  short  time  Mr.  Bass 
was  under  arrest  and  the  camp  placed  under  guard.  A 
thorough  investigation  was  made,  resulting  in  charging  to  the 
outfit  all  shortage  on  goods,  together  with  eleven  cents  per 
pound  freight  on  same  from  the  Missouri  River  to  Fourth 
Company  Post. 

The  last  seen  of  my  big  Missouri  friend,  he  was  on  his 
favorite  mule,  the  faces  of  both  turned  toward  the  rising  sun. 
He  might  have  been  a  sadder  but  no  doubt  he  was  a  wiser 
man. 

"Good-bye!    Take  care  of  yourself,  Mr.  Bass." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Perilous   Times — Employed  by  Mr.  Carter — Indians!  Indians! 

Indians! — More  Gallatin   Valley   Gold  Enthusiasm — 

My  Guardian  Angel 

MY  stay  at  Fort  Phil  Kearny  from  the  middle  of  Sep- 
tember to  the  early  part  of  November,  1 866, — nearly 
two  months — was  the  most  exciting  time  I  ever 
experienced. 

The  firm  of  Coe  &  Carter  had  the  contracts  for  getting 
out  logs,  wood  and  several  hundred  tons  of  hay,  the  former 
to  build  houses  for  officers  and  men,  and  stables  for  horses 
and  stockade  purposes.  The  logs  cost  $1.00  to  $3.00  each, 
depending  on  size.  The  wood  was  $10.00  per  load  and  the 
hay  as  high  as  $126.00  or  more  per  ton.  The  latter  was 
mostly  cut  on  Goose  Creek  three  to  five  miles  distant.  The 
wood  was  cut  and  hauled  from  the  Piney  Creek  bottom  one 
to  two  miles  distant  and  the  logs  from  patches  of  timber  at 
the  foothills  six  to  eight  miles  distant.  Horse  and  mule 
teams  would  usually  make  one  trip  a  day  for  logs,  cattle  two 
to  three  trips  a  day  for  wood  and  one  trip  a  day  (usually  a 
long  day)  with  loose  hay  hauled  in  racks. 

Learning  from  Colonel  Carrington  and  others  that  there 
was  no  possible  chance  for  a  few  men  to  make  their  way  to 
the  Gallatin  Valley  mines  that  fall  unless  some  troops  were 
going  to  that  point,  I  concluded  to  hire  out  to  Mr.  Carter 
at  $60.00  per  month  to  help  haul  hay,  logs  and  wood. 

The  job  was  anything  but  a  pleasant  one.  The  sutlers, 
namely,  Judge  Kinney,  Messrs.  Weston,  McCrary,  Coe  and 
Carter,  who  ran  the  store  and  had  interest  in  the  hay,  wood 
and  log  contracts,  had  had  several  wood  choppers,  hay 
makers  and  teamsters  killed  and  wounded  by  the  Indians  and 
had  suffered  serious  financial  loss  in  capture,  by  stampede  or 
theft,  of  horses,  mules,  oxen  and  harness.  Wagons,  hay,  tents, 
wood,  logs  and  camp  equipage  had  been  burned  in  raids  by 

87 


88  Trails  of  Yesterday 

hostile  bands  of  Indians  headed  by  the  noted  chiefs,  Man 
Afraid  Of  His  Horse,  Red  Ribs  and  Red  Cloud. 

These  Indians  scarcely  allowed  a  day  or  a  night  to  pass 
without  hurling  their  warriors  against  what  they  considered 
to  be  our  weak  points  at  and  near  this  fort  with  a  view  to 
destroying  it  and  exterminating  all  "pale  faces"  connected 
with  it.  They  had  made  up  their  minds  to  wipe  out  this 
particular  link  in  the  chain  of  forts  across  their  hunting 
grounds.  Runners  were  sent  to  the  different  Sioux  tribes 
and  many  responded.  The  result  was  that  this  post  was 
attacked  oftener  and  more  fiercely  during  its  existence  than 
any  post  ever  built  on  the  frontier.  One  month  it  was  at- 
tacked fifteen  times,  another  twenty  times.  For  three  years, 
or  until  1869,  it  was  in  a  constant  state  of  siege.  In  the  six 
months  ending  January  31,  1867,  the  Indians  killed  in  this 
vicinity  one  hundred  fifty-four  persons  and  wounded  more 
than  two  hundred  others.  Hundreds  of  oxen,  work  horses 
and  mules  were  taken  and  several  trains  of  wagons  loaded 
with  hay,  logs,  and  wood,  also  wagons  loaded  with  freight 
for  Fort  C.  F.  Smith  and  the  Bozeman  trail,  were  captured 
and  destroyed. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  at  night  before  the  hay  wagons 
on  which  I  was  to  go  to  the  hay  camp  were  unloaded.  It 
was  late  when  we  arrived  at  camp  over  a  somewhat  crooked 
trail  that  was,  unknown  to  me,  guarded  by  mountaineers  at 
different  points.  The  camp  was  on  a  high  flat  overlooking 
the  Goose  Creek  Valley.  There  were  a  few  tents  and  some 
wagons  loaded  with  hay,  under  one  of  which  I  spread  my  two 
pairs  of  blankets  and  turned  in  with  my  boots  on.  I  was 
cautioned  by  one  of  the  camp  guards  to  place  my  revolvers 
where  I  could  get  at  them  quickly  but  not  to  fire  a  shot  unless 
I  was  ordered.  Supperless  and  tired  I  slept  soundly  until  I 
was  awakened  by  one  of  the  night  herders  a  little  before  day- 
light, calling:  "Breakfast  ready!"  After  breakfast,  consist- 
ign  of  bear  meat,  beans,  skillet  bread  and  coffee,  I  was  given 
a  pitchfork  and  told  to  go  with  Kellogg  who  had  charge  of 
loading  the  hay  wagons. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  89 

On  the  way  down  the  hill  to  the  hayfield  I  soon  became 
acquainted  with  Kellogg,  who  was  a  typical  frontiersman. 
He  feared  neither  God  nor  devil,  let  alone  a  man.  He  was 
an  old  miner  who  had  been  to  the  Gallatin  Valley  and  other 
mining  camps  and  he  and  another  miner  had  come  down 
with  Captain  Bailey's  company  to  get  a  grub  stake  with  which, 
when  made,  they  expected  to  return  to  those  placer  diggings. 
He  told  me  these  were  very  rich  and  easily  worked.  I  told  him 
I  was  on  my  way  to  those  mines  and  should  be  glad  to  go  with 
him  at  any  time.  Kellogg  said  they  would  like  to  return  that 
fall  but  the  Indians  were  making  things  so  hot  for  them  that 
they  might  have  to  winter  at  the  post  unless  some  troops  should 
be  going  up  there  or  to  Fort  C.  F.  Smith,  when  they  would  ac- 
company them  that  distance  if  possible. 

The  miner,  who  was  nearly  sixty  years  old,  warmed 
up  to  me  considerably  when  I  told  him  I  would  like  to  go  with 
him.  He  told  me  confidentially  that  he  could  take  me  to  a 
place  where  all  I  would  need  would  be  a  shovel  and  a  sack. 
He  said  the  Indians  had  run  him  and  a  party  of  forty  men  out 
of  these  mines  the  previous  May.  He  was  so  earnest  and 
frank  that  I  believed  him. 

Before  parting  he  gave  certain  instructions  as  to  my  duties 
in  helping  load  the  wagons  and  then  pointed  out  to  me  a 
certain  dark  object  near  the  middle  of  the  hayfield.  The 
point  indicated  was  some  breastworks  thrown  up  and  to  this 
hurried  all  the  haymakers,  mowers,  rakers  and  teamsters, 
with  their  teams  in  case  the  Indians  swooped  down  on  them, 
which  was  often  three  or  four  times  a  day. 

We  had  loaded  two  wagons  and  started  them  for  that 
point  when  there  came  a  yell  from  the  men:  "Indians! 
Indians!  Indians! ! !"  Not  having  much  hay  on  the  wagons 
we  dropped  the  gooseneck  in  the  tongue  from  the  ring  in  the 
yoke  and  started  the  oxen  on  a  trot  towards  the  place  desig- 
nated by  Kellogg.  Other  teams,  some  with  mowers,  rakes 
and  wagons  attached,  were  coming  from  different  parts  of 
the  valley  to  the  same  place. 

About  this  time  I  noticed  a  large  band  of  horses  coming 


90  Trails  of  Yesterday 

tearing  down  the  hill  that  we  (Kellogg  and  I)  had  come 
down  that  morning,  and  I  started  on  a  run,  revolver  in  each 
hand,  intending  to  stop  them.  I  passed  near  Kellogg  and  he 
yelled:  "Come  back,  you  d — d  fool,  or  you'll  get  killed." 
I  continued  my  gait  and  finally  stopped  the  horses  at  the  creek 
crossing,  expecting  every  moment  to  be  surrounded  by  Indians. 
I  had  picked  up  the  trailing  lariat  of  some  of  the  best  horses, 
intending  to  jump  on  one  should  the  Indians  try  to  surround 
me.  After  a  few  anxious  moments  I  was  most  agreeably  sur- 
prised to  see  a  lot  of  mounted  white  men  gathered  around  the 
band  of  horses.  One  of  these  men  rode  up  to  me,  and  was  soon 
joined  by  others,  who  began  to  ask  me  questions  as  to  what 
I  was  doing  there.  I  explained  that  while  running  towards 
Kellogg's  camp  in  the  field  I  had  noticed  this  band  of  horses 
coming  over  the  hills  and  that  I  succeeded  in  stopping  them. 

I  had  by  this  time  picked  up  the  ropes  of  several  and  made 
the  remark  that  I  had  made  a  killing  in  securing  such  a  nice 
bunch,  thinking  all  the  time  they  were  Indian  horses.  I  was 
soon  given  to  understand  that  the  band  belonged  to  the  men, 
who  continued  to  gather  around  them.  Noticing  my  igno- 
rance they  asked  when  I  had  come  to  the  camp.  I  told  them 
late  the  night  before.  I  further  told  them  that  if  I  had  done 
them  any  good  in  stopping  the  horses  I  was  glad  of  it.  They 
made  me  a  present  of  a  nice  young  horse  and  from  that  day 
on,  while  these  fifty  mountaineers  remained  in  our  camps  to 
guard  us,  I  was  "the  white-headed  boy." 

Kellogg  cautioned  me  not  to  take  any  more  chances  like 
that  as  I  might  take  one  too  many. 

Mr.  Carter  paid  these  fifty  mounted  men  $5.00  per  day 
each  for  themselves  and  ponies  to  protect  the  camps  and  teams 
from  Indian  raids.  These  men,  the  bravest  I  ever  met,  were 
kept  busy  under  the  charge  of  Captain  Bailey.  Not  a  day  and 
scarcely  a  night  passed  without  Indians  attacking  us  either  in 
the  hayfield,  or  on  the  road  to  and  from  the  post.  Captain 
Bailey  maintained  strict  discipline  over  the  mountaineers. 
His  word  was  law  as  is  shown  by  the  following  incident : 

One  of  the  men  stole  a  watch  from  another.     The  case 


Trails  of  Yesterday  91 

was  called  with  Captain  Bailey  as  judge  and  the  other  men  as 
the  jury.    The  sentence  imposed  was  uTo  be  shot." 

After  the  sentence  was  pronounced  the  unlucky  fellow 
gave  his  horse,  saddle,  bridle,  blankets,  gun  and  revolvers  to 
his  best  friend,  bade  them  all  good-bye,  pinned  a  piece  of  buck- 
skin over  his  heart,  and  walking  ten  steps  out  of  camp,  stood 
with  hands  behind  him,  and  without  a  tremor  told  the  five  men 
detailed  to  shoot  him,  that  he  was  ready  and  for  them  "not 
to  miss  the  buckskin." 

He  fell  dead  without  a  murmur.  No  tears  were  shed. 
One  comrade  made  the  remark  as  he  looked  at  his  dead  body, 
"Poor  Bill." 

A  crumpled  letter  was  found  in  poor  Bill's  saddle  pocket. 
The  letter  was  dated  Chicago,  March  3,  1865.  It  was  from 
poor  Bill's  mother,  asking  him  to  come  back  home. 

"Poor  Mother!  Bill  will  never  come  back."  Perhaps 
he  committed  a  crime  in  taking  the  watch  but  he  died  a  hero 
worthy  of  a  better  cause. 

I  could  fill  many  pages  describing  the  character  and  habits 
of  these  brave,  generous  men.  They  did  not  know  what  fear 
was  and  were  always  ready  to  fight  Indians  day  or  night. 
They  were  divided  into  squads  for  night  and  day.  Part 
would  escort  the  hay,  wood  and  log  teams  hauling  to  the 
fort,  and  part  would  be  guarding  the  haymakers,  log  and 
woodcutters  and  the  camp.  I  came  across  only  one  who  did 
not  drink,  chew  tobacco  and  swear.  His  comrades  said  "he 
was  off  and  batty,"  and  treated  him  as  such. 

Those  guarding  the  haymakers  and  hay  camps  would 
usually  go  in  pairs,  never  more  than  three,  to  some  high  hill 
overlooking  the  surrounding  country,  keeping  in  sight  of  some 
of  their  comrades  and  the  haymakers  in  the  valley  below,  to 
whom  they  would  signal  if  they  saw  signs  of  an  intended 
Indian  attack,  when  all  would  hasten  to  the  weakest  point. 
On  the  contrary,  if  everything  was  quiet  and  no  Indians  in 
sight,  they  would  dismount,  throw  the  bridle  reins  over  the 
horses'  heads  and  untie  the  lariats  from  the  saddles,  allowing 
the  horses  to  graze  a  certain  distance  around  them.     Guns 


92  Trails  of  Yesterday 

were  within  easy  reach  should  they  be  needed,  and  after 
looking  over  the  country  with  a  view  to  avoid  any  sudden 
attack,  they  would  sit  down  by  their  guns  and  indulge  in  a 
little  game  of  poker.  They  would  always  play  for  money  and 
sometimes  for  heavy  stakes. 

Once  while  thus  engaged,  a  band  of  Indians  stole  up  on 
two  mountaineers  and  took  their  horses  without  being  dis- 
covered until  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  when  one  of 
the  scouts  grabbed  his  gun  and  sent  one  Indian  to  the  "Happy 
Hunting  Grounds."  Other  Indians  carried  the  dead  one  away 
and  escaped  with  the  two  horses.  The  two  mountaineers 
came  back  angry  and  swearing.  One  had  a  canteen  of  whiskey 
and  $5000.00  in  gold  coin  and  nuggets  in  his  saddle  pockets. 
He  never  mentioned  the  money  and  nuggets  but  how  he  did 
swear  at  the  loss  of  his  whiskey.  Whiskey,  any  kind  of  bitters, 
alcohol  and  Jamaica  ginger  brought  any  price  asked  for  it 
from  $3.00  to  $10.00  per  bottle. 

Attacks  came  so  thick  and  fast  from  the  redskins  that  we 
began  to  wonder  which  of  us  would  be  the  next  to  go  under 
a  little  mound.  One  or  more  were  killed  every  day,  besides 
others  who  were  wounded  and  taken  to  the  Fort  hospital.  If 
the  Indians  could  not  see  a  favorable  chance  to  steal  in  on 
the  haymakers  through  the  line  of  guards,  they  would  set  fire 
to  the  long  grass  and  this,  fanned  by  a  favorable  breeze, 
would  cause  us  to  flee  for  our  lives,  when  they  would  swoop 
down  upon  us  and  stampede  our  horses,  mules  and  cattle, 
while  we  were  trying  to  save  ourselves  and  camp  outfits. 
Assisted  by  the  mountaineers  and  often  by  one  or  two  compa- 
nies of  cavalry  from  the  fort,  we  would  make  the  Reds  pay 
dearly  for  these  raids. 

I  remember  one  afternoon  the  Indians  had  made  several 
attacks  on  us.  They  killed  three  of  our  men  and  wounded 
some  others,  captured  nearly  all  our  mowing  and  rake  teams 
and  had  us  all  corralled  on  a  high  hill  where  we  spent  the 
evening  and  the  greater  part  of  the  night  in  digging  rifle  pits 
and  in  defending  ourselves  and  the  stock  we  had  left.  Mr. 
Carter  was  with  us  and  paid  our  old  stuttering  blacksmith, 


Trails  of  Yesterday  93 

Jose,  $500.00  to  go  to  the  fort  five  miles  distant  to  get  relief. 
I  thought  it  strange  Mr.  Carter  did  not  call  on  some  of  the 
mountaineers  for  this  hazardous  trip;  but  perhaps  it  was 
because  we  needed  them  with  us,  since  every  time  they  fired 
a  shot,  down  would  go  an  Indian  to  join  others  sent  to  the 
Hunting  Grounds.  Mr.  Carter  knew  Jose  and  knew  he 
would  execute  the  order  or  die  in  the  attempt,  even  if  Jose 
was  a  stuttering  German.  We  estimated  that  more  than  one 
thousand  Indians  had  us  surrounded  and  judging  from  the 
many  signal  fires  being  built  around  us  other  Indians  were 
being  told  to  come  and  help  finish  us.  Unless  we  got  relief 
before  daylight  we  knew  that  our  chance  to  escape  would  be 
slim. 

It  must  have  been  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  Jose 
mounted  the  best  horse  we  had  in  camp  and  started  for  the 
fort.  A  few  stars  were  out  but  the  night  was  rather  dark. 
Thin  clouds  of  smoke  from  the  prairie  fire  the  Indians  had 
started  in  the  afternoon  hung  over  our  camp.  The  fire  was 
still  burning  in  spots. 

Jose,  armed  with  two  revolvers  and  a  sharp  butcher  knife 
in  his  belt,  had  been  gone  some  ten  minutes.  The  sound  of 
his  horse's  hoofs  had  died  away  on  the  gravel  ridge  road 
leading  to  the  fort  and  we  were  congratulating  ourselves  that 
he  had  gotten  safely  through  the  line  of  redskins,  when  to 
our  surprise  he  came  at  breakneck  speed  into  camp  followed 
by  a  bunch  of  Indians,  some  of  whom  we  tumbled  off  their 
horses  before  they  escaped.  Mr.  Carter  and  others  were  soon 
at  Jose's  side  asking  him  what  he  proposed  to  do  next  when 
Jose  answered,  "I  most  believe  I  will  try  it  another  way,"  and 
in  less  than  ten  minutes  he  disappeared  in  the  darkness  in  an 
opposite  direction  as  though  he  were  going  to  the  Tongue 
River  or  Big  Horn  Mountain. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  say  we  spent  an  anxious  night.  Not 
an  eye  was  closed.  Every  man  who  was  able  was  either  lying 
in  a  trench  or  on  the  rise  of  some  hill  or  behind  some  object, 
with  gun  or  revolver  in  hand.  A  detail  of  men  was  taking  the 
best  care  possible  of  the  wounded. 


94  Trails  of  Yesterday 

Just  about  the  peep  of  day  we  saw  the  Indians  scattering 
to  right  and  left  of  a  large  body  of  mounted  men.  It  proved 
to  be  two  companies  of  cavalry  with  old  Jose  in  the  lead.  I 
have  talked  with  many  of  the  Indians,  even  with  Red  Cloud 
himself,  and  all  assured  me  that  they  had  enough  Indians  to 
kill  us  all  and  had  planned  to  do  this  at  sunrise  had  not  the 
cavalry  come  to  our  rescue  when  it  did.  We  gathered  what 
was  left  of  our  camp  equipage,  horses,  mules  and  cattle  that 
were  tied,  and  with  our  dead  and  wounded  men,  came  to  the 
fort. 

This  finished  our  haymaking.  A  wagon  trail  had  been 
cut  around  a  steep  hillside,  thus  saving  us  nearly  three  miles 
between  our  hay  camp  and  the  fort.  To  follow  this  trail  with 
an  ox-team  with  a  load  of  hay  took  the  most  careful  driving 
to  avoid  upsetting  and  rolling  down  several  hundred  feet. 
Several  wagons  and  teams  had  gone  over  this  bluff  and  lay  in 
a  heap  at  the  bottom  with  the  oxen  dead  under  the  wreck. 
The  teamsters  escaped  this  cruel  fate. 

A  few  days  later  E.  C.  Miller,  an  old  wagon  master 
of  Mr.  Carter's,  was  sent  with  some  horse  and  mule  teams, 
men  and  an  escort  of  cavalry  to  bring  in  what  he  could  of 
this  wreck  that  was  of  any  worth.  While  working  at  this, 
Miller's  party  was  attacked  by  Indians.  A  couple  of  team- 
sters were  killed  and  some  wounded,  the  others  escaping  with 
their  lives  under  the  protection  of  the  escort  of  cavalry.  An 
Indian  shot  at  Mr.  Miller,  the  ball  striking  his  watch,  which 
was  smashed  to  pieces,  thus  probably  saving  his  life.  Mr. 
Miller  was  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  his  men.  He  hid  in  the 
hills  that  night  and  returned  to  the  post  about  noon  the  next 
day. 

After  finishing  the  hay  contract,  on  which  the  firm  must 
have  lost  much  money,  even  if  they  did  receive  $125.00  to 
$128.00  per  ton,  part  of  the  outfit  set  to  work  hauling  in 
wood  from  the  bottoms  on  Piney  Creek  and  part  were  sent 
for  logs,  principally  the  horse  and  mule  teams.  I  was  de- 
tailed with  the  ox-teams  to  haul  firewood  although  good 
coal  cropped  out  in  many  places.     We  made,  as  a  rule,  two 


Trails  of  Yesterday  95 

trips  per  day  for  wood  when  the  Indians  would  not  molest  us 
for  two  or  three  hours  a  day.  We  received  $10.00  a  load  for 
the  wood.  About  one-third  of  the  mountaineers  guarded  us 
and  the  others  guarded  the  log  choppers  and  haulers. 

At  sunrise  every  morning  Colonel  Carrington,  com- 
mander of  the  fort,  would  send  a  mounted  squad  to  the  top 
of  the  high  hill  overlooking  the  fort  with  a  view  to  guarding 
against  Indian  raids  and  surprises.  When  this  guard  would 
see  Indians  approaching  they  would  make  certain  signals  to 
the  guard  in  the  fort  below  and  this  would  be  communicated 
to  the  officer  of  the  day.  These  signals  would  give  the 
approximate  number  of  Indians  in  the  party  and  from  what 
direction  they  were  coming.  This  guard  would  sometimes 
stay  at  their  post  until  the  Indians  came  very  close,  when  the 
men  would  come  tearing  down  the  steep  hill  at  a  breakneck 
speed.  Then  the  Indians  would  take  the  places  of  the  guard 
and  with  a  buckskin  fastened  to  their  bows,  would  imitate 
the  guard,  much  to  the  disgust  of  Colonel  Carrington  and 
fellow  officers.  The  mountain  howitzer  would  fail  to  reach 
them. 

Our  camp  at  this  time  was  near  the  stockade.  Wagon 
beds,  each  by  a  little  crowding,  affording  sleeping  quarters  for 
from  two  to  four  men,  were  set  on  pine  logs  raised  one  to 
two  feet  off  the  ground,  thus  making  a  circle  or  corral  in 
which  the  work  cattle  were  driven  to  be  yoked.  At  night 
huge  camp  fires  would  be  lighted  in  the  corrals,  by  which  those 
inclined  to  indulge  in  card  games,  usually  poker,  could  get 
all  light  needed. 

These  camp  fires  were  also  a  temptation  to  the  Indians  to 
steal  through  the  cordon  of  guards  stationed  around  the  out- 
side of  the  corrals  and  spot  the  card  players  as  they  sat  on 
the  ground  deeply  interested  in  the  game. 

I  have  seen  as  much  as  $5000.00  in  gold  and  gold  dust 
change  hands  in  one  night.  The  men,  especially  the  mountain- 
eers, would  stake  their  money  on  anything — on  the  race  of  a 
worm  or  bug  and  very  often  on  the  race  of  vermin.  They 
would  chalk  a  small  ring  on  a  warmed  tin  plate  and  another 


96  Trails  of  Yesterday 

outside  of  this  near  the  rim  of  the  plate,  when  bets  ranging 
from  $10.00  to  $100.00  would  be  made  on  the  different 
worms,  bugs  or  vermin  that  would  get  outside  the  outer  ring 
first.  The  winner  would  sometimes  clean  up  $500.00  on 
one  race. 

We  had  a  very  talkative  boy  in  our  camp  named  Brown 
who  was  frequently  giving  advice  to  some  of  these  mountain- 
eer gamblers  about  playing  cards.  One  of  them  resented 
this  by  picking  Brown  up  gently  and  setting  him  on  top  of  a 
hot  camp  fire.  The  boy  was  more  scared  than  burned  but  he 
never  gave  any  more  advice  to  that  mountaineer  about  cards. 

I  had  no  interest  in  these  games  and  would  usually, 
when  not  on  guard  duty,  retire  to  my  wagon  and  if  I  could 
not  obtain  a  lantern,  which  was  a  great  luxury,  I  would  read 
and  re-read  my  "Harper's  Monthly"  or  write  letters  by  the 
light  of  a  tallow  candle  or  a  light  from  a  rag  saturated  with 
oil  or  dirty  grease  on  some  old  tin  plate. 

I  was  occupied  this  way  one  evening,  probably  about 
nine  o'clock,  when  three  shots  were  fired  between  my  wagon 
bed  and  another  where  several  men  were  playing  cards.  I 
blew  out  the  light  as  quickly  as  possible,  grabbed  both  re- 
volvers and  aimed  at  the  rear  end  of  the  wagon  bed.  At  first 
I  thought  I  had  been  shot. 

The  card  players  in  the  next  wagon  scrambled  out  of  it 
quickly.  I  recognized  my  bunkey's  (only  known  name  Dick) 
voice,  appealing  to  the  others  to  get  their  guns  quickly  as 
three  mountaineers  out  of  a  party  of  six,  playing  cards  by 
the  camp  fire  in  the  corral,  had  been  killed.  Dick  pushed  his 
head  in  my  wagon  and  grabbed  his  gun  which  stood  with 
mine  in  the  rear  end  corner.  I  challenged  him.  He  answered, 
"It's  Dick,"  and  told  me  to  get  out  quickly  as  three  men  had 
been  killed  and  the  country  around  the  fort  was  on  fire. 

We  found  that  some  Indians  had  crawled  inside  our 
guard  line  without  being  discovered  and  shot  the  three  moun- 
taineers as  they  sat  playing  cards  by  the  camp  fire  inside  the 
corral.     Two  were  dead  and  the  other  was  taken  to  the 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


97 


fl   Q 


98  Trails  of  Yesterday 

hospital  with  a  bullet  hole  through  him.  This  man  recovered 
later  and  made  many  "good  Indians." 

Instead  of  the  country  around  us  and  the  fort  being  on 
fire,  the  Indians  had  built  several  signal  fires  around  the  fort 
and  could  be  seen  dancing  naked  around  them  and  were  heard 
yelling  their  war  songs. 

The  excitement  in  the  post  was  intense.  Every  man  was 
called  to  arms.  The  women  and  children  were  gathered  to- 
gether and  put  in  the  powder  magazine  with  a  good,  trusty 
officer,  who  was  told  to  blow  it  up  if  the  Indians  entered  the 
stockade  and  tried  to  capture  them.  Of  course,  our  camp 
was  outside  the  stockade,  hence  the  Indians  would  have  to 
wipe  us  out  before  entering  the  stockade  on  our  side  of 
the  fort. 

Captain  Bailey  took  charge  of  the  bullwhackers,  wood 
choppers,  mule  skinners,  etc.,  as  well  as  his  company  of 
mountaineers.  Every  man  had  his  place  and  many  were  lying 
flat  in  the  grass  on  their  stomachs.  All  had  positive  orders 
not  to  fire  a  shot  until  ordered.  Colonel  Carrington  con- 
cluded to  try  his  mountain  howitzers  on  the  Indian  dancers. 
After  a  few  shots  the  gunners  got  range  on  some  of  the 
Indian  fires,  and  many  fires  were  extinguished  and  some 
dancers'  lives  went  out  with  them. 

Our  work  cattle  were  being  night  herded  by  two  Germans, 
one,  Fred  W.  Kracht,  who  was  living  at  No.  724  North 
Thirtieth  street,  Omaha,  Nebraska,  when  he  called  on  me  in 
April,  1909.  Though  it  was  forty-three  years  after  this 
exciting  night,  we  knew  each  other  and  had  a  very  pleasant 
visit,  reciting  our  experiences  at  Fort  Phil  Kearny  during 
those  exciting  days. 

One  night  volunteers  were  called  for  to  go  and  rescue 
Fred  and  the  other  German,  who  was  known  by  the  name  of 
Charley,  and  bring  in  the  work  cattle.  I  was  one  of  the  four- 
teen men  who  responded.  Jose  and  Kellogg  were  with  us. 
We  crawled  on  our  hands  and  knees  for  over  a  mile  through 
the  brush  along  Piney  Creek.  Several  times  Indians  rode 
uncomfortably  close  to  us  and  it  seemed  that  they  had  dis- 


Trails  of  Yesterday  99 

covered  us.  Their  ponies  shied  from  us  and  one  Indian 
remarked  that  "Tagaleska  warsiches"  were  in  the  brush. 
What  Indians  we  saw  were  naked.  The  cattle  were  grazing 
quietly  in  the  open  along  the  stream  until  we  or  some  of  the 
Indians  frightened  them. 

On  our  way  up  the  creek,  when  we  thought  no  Indians 
were  near,  Kellogg,  who  was  in  charge,  would  halloo : 
"Fred!"  "Charley!"  but  receiving  no  response  for  some  time, 
we  continued  working  our  way  up  the  creek  through  the 
brush.  Finally  we  discovered  several  Indians  trying  to  set 
the  brush  on  fire.  Had  they  succeeded  they  would  have  made 
it  warm  for  us,  but  the  Indian  method  of  starting  a  fire  at 
this  time  was  very  slow,  especially  when  the  grass  and  brush 
were  damp  from  the  dew  and  light  fog.  We  heard  the  Indi- 
ans say  the  herders  were  in  the  brush.    They  guessed  rightly. 

After  failure  to  set  the  grass  and  brush  on  fire  the 
Indians  fired  several  shots  and  arrows  into  the  thickest  of 
the  brush,  hoping,  no  doubt,  to  kill  the  herders.  Some  of 
these  shots  and  arrows  came  near  us.  Later  we  heard  a 
pretended  wolf  howl.  A  few  seconds  later  the  two  herders 
dashed  out  of  the  brush  and  shouted,  "Hurrah  for  camp," 
for  which  they  started  as  fast  as  their  horses  could  go,  chased 
by  fully  one  hundred  Indians.  We  arrived  at  camp  just  as 
the  company  of  mountaineers  and  two  companies  of  cavalry 
were  leaving  to  bring  in  the  cattle,  which  they  finally  did 
about  two  hours  later,  leaving  them  between  the  stockade 
and  our  camp  where  we  held  them  the  balance  of  the  night, 
expecting  the  Indians  to  close  in  on  us  before  sunrise. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  a  soldier,  standing 
guard  on  the  raised  platform  at  the  corner  of  the  stockade, 
yelled  for  the  corporal  of  the  guard  to  come  quickly  as  In- 
dians were  trying  to  lariat  him.  This  was  all  imagination, 
as  we  had  fully  twenty-five  well-armed  men  around  the  cattle 
and  fully  seventy-five  outside  of  these  guarding  camp.  The 
picket  refused  to  remain  and  was  marched  to  the  guard  house 
and  two. other  guards  took  his  place.  As  stated,  the  cattle 
were  being  held  close  to  the  stockade  and  it  would  have  been 


100  Trails  of  Yesterday 

impossible  for  Indians  to  get  between  the  stockade  and  the 
cattle  without  stampeding  them. 

Some  one  in  our  camp  disobeyed  the  order  not  to  fire  a 
shot  until  ordered  and  cruelly  shot  and  killed  our  old  pet 
mule  "Lize."  She  made  a  rule  of  coming  to  the  cook  wagon 
and  bread  box  every  night  for  a  few  scraps  which  the  cook 
would  usually  set  aside  for  her.  No  doubt  some  of  the  night 
guards  thought  her  an  Indian. 

The  Indians  kept  up  a  few  signal  fires  all  night  but  out 
of  reach  of  Colonel  Carrington's  guns. 

I  have  talked  with  many  Indians  who  were  at  Fort  Phil 
Kearny  at  the  time  I  was  there  and  all  told  me  that  the 
night  Colonel  Carrington  used  his  mountain  howitzers  on 
them  the  Indians  had  planned  to  destroy  the  fort  and  kill 
every  white  man,  woman  and  child  in  and  near  it.  This  in- 
tention was  changed  when  that  grape  and  cannister  shot  from 
those  mountain  howitzers  came  down  among  them.  Several 
Indians  were  killed  and  more  wounded  and  they  concluded 
that  the  Great  Father  was  angry  with  them  in  thus  dropping 
fire  upon  them.  A  council  of  the  head  chiefs  was  held  and  it 
was  concluded  to  wait  until  a  more  favorable  time  and  thus 
the  intended  massacre  was  postponed.  At  this  time  the  red- 
skins had  no  knowledge  that  such  a  murderous  fire  could  be 
discharged  from  a  gun.  They  evidently  had  not  met  General 
Harney  or  Colonel  Chivington,  otherwise  they  would  have 
known  better. 

All  were  pleased  when  daylight  came.  The  Indians  had 
disappeared  and  carried  off  their  dead  and  wounded,  and 
after  we  had  buried  our  two  mountaineers  who  had  been 
killed  the  night  previous  we  went  to  work  again  hauling  logs 
and  wood  for  the  fort,  which  the  Indians  were  determined 
that  we  should  not. 

I  pause  here  to  say  one  word  of  praise  for  Colonel  Car- 
rington, his  brave  officers,  their  wives,  and  soldiers  under 
his  command.  None  knew  what  fear  was.  Always  ready 
for  any  call  to  duty  night  or  day,  they  would  rush  out  any 
time  to  save  us,  often  when  they  knew  they  were  going  to 


Trails  of  Yesterday  101 

certain  death.  Be  all  honor  and  glory  to  American  soldiers 
such  as  Colonel  Carrington,  his  officers  and  men,  and  many 
other  like  heroes,  whom  I  have  met  and  known  on  the  fron- 
tier; the  Fettermans,  Browns,  Crooks,  Carrs,  Palmers, 
Hayes,  Walkers,  Miles,  Emerys,  and  scores  of  others,  not 
forgetting  their  brave  wives  who  went  through  severe  hard- 
ships at  these  frontier  posts.  These  men  helped  blaze  the 
way  for  the  opening  of  the  Western  Empire  where  untold 
wealth  in  gold,  silver,  copper,  coal,  iron,  and  many  other 
rich  minerals  cropped  out  freely  here  and  there  from  Nature's 
bosom,  begging  and  coaxing  the  brave  and  hard  pioneer  to 
come  and  help  himself. 

Yes,  many  of  us  might  have  claimed  our  share  of  this 
wealth  had  it  not  been  for  the  pressure  of  the  noble  Red  Man 
who  claimed  the  earth  and  counted  his  wealth  in  the  number 
of  buffalo,  elk,  deer,  and  other  game  that  he  considered  his 
to  be  captured  and  killed  at  will.  He  had  fully  determined 
to  keep  all  the  pale  faces  out  of  his  country.  The  Great 
Sioux  Chiefs  who  were  at  the  Fort  Laramie  Council  and 
many  others  who  had  joined  them  since  were  making  that 
threat  of  Red  Cloud  good. 

Kellogg,  his  chum  and  I  had  nearly  finished  our  little  log 
shack  on  Piney  Creek  near  the  fort.  My  last  thought  on  going 
to  sleep  and  first  thought  on  awakening  was:  "Don't  stay!" 
"Don't  stay!"  "Don't  stay  here  but  return  with  the  train 
to  Fort  Mitchell!"  Mr.  Carter  had  often  urged  me  to  do 
this,  intimating  that  he  had  special  work  for  me  at  that  fort, 
but  I  could  not  do  so  without  breaking  faith  with  Kellogg 
and  his  partner.  I  had  purchased  one-third  of  the  provisions 
to  last  us  through  the  winter.  Flour  was  $16.00  per  sack, 
sugar  $1.00  per  pound,  and  other  provisions  in  proportion. 

The  work  was  about  done.  Snow  had  begun  to  fall  on 
the  high  hills  around  the  fort  and  the  nights  were  getting 
cold  and  many  miles  had  to  be  covered  by  the  rather  thin 
work  cattle,  horses  and  mules  before  reaching  Fort  Mitchell. 
I  was  not  superstitious  and  I  would  try  to  banish  the  thought 
"don't  stay"  from  my  mind  but  could  not. 


102  Trails  of  Yesterday 

Our  train  was  starting  and  as  my  wagon  passed  our  little 
log  house  I  rushed  in,  rolled  up  my  bed  and  told  Kellogg 
and  his  partner  that  some  impending  disaster,  that  I  could  not 
explain,  was  causing  me  to  return  with  the  train  to  Fort 
Mitchell.  I  told  them  they  were  welcome  to  all  I  had  in  the 
shack,  that  I  hated  to  leave  them,  especially  Kellogg,  who  had 
been  so  kind  to  me,  but  I  could  not  resist  the  unknown  power 
that  had  continued  to  tell  me  for  some  weeks  past  not  to 
remain.  Kellogg  intimated  that  I  was  a  fool  to  notice  such 
things  when  he  knew  that,  once  in  the  Gallatin  Valley  mines, 
we  would  all  be  rich. 

To  my  Guardian  Angel  alone  I  attribute  this  timely 
warning. 

I  bade  Kellogg  and  his  partner  an  affectionate  farewell. 
Tears  came  into  the  old  miner's  eyes  as  I  shook  hands  and 
said  good-bye.  This  was  the  last  I  saw  of  these  two  brave 
men. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Experience  at  Fort  Mitchell — Phil  Kearny  Massacre — Sibson's  Road 

Ranch — A  Ride  for  Life — Big  Mouth's   Threat  and 

Deception — A   Stranger  Crosses  my  Path — 

Indian  s  Revenge  on  an  Outlaw 

I  HAD  lost  track  of  Swank  and  the  three  other  bull- 
whackers  who  came  to  Fort  Phil  Kearny  with  me.  I 
think  they  must  have  returned  to  the  Missouri  River  with 
some  earlier  train  or  have  been  killed. 

Though  disappointed  by  not  being  able  to  go  to  the  mines 
in  the  Gallatin  Valley,  I  congratulated  myself  on  leaving  Fort 
Phil  Kearny  alive.  I  could  count  quite  a  few  chums  who 
were  not  going  back.  Their  bodies  were  lying  in  some  un- 
marked graves.  Citizens  living  in  this  part  of  the  Great 
American  Republic  one  hundred  years  hence  will  have  no 
conception  of  the  hardships  experienced  by  the  men  who 
blazed  this  Northwestern  trail,  which  hundreds  of  times  has 
been  sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  the  bravest  of  both  men  and 
women.  If  a  detailed  history  of  the  many  murders  committed 
by  Indians  on  this  trail  from  1866  to  the  Custer  Massacre 
could  be  written,  it  would  blacken  all  Indian  history  on  the 
American  continent;  but  while  condemning  their  cruel  mode 
of  warfare,  we  must  not  forget  the  fact  that  they  were  savages 
fighting  for  home  and  country — yes,  for  very  existence  as  they 
understood  it. 

Part  of  our  wagons  were  loaded  with  buffalo  hides,  elk, 
deer  and  other  skins,  besides  bales  of  furs.  We  worked  the 
best  and  strongest  of  our  ox,  horse  and  mule  teams  and  drove 
the  others  loose,  keeping  together  as  far  as  Fort  Laramie, 
where  we  arrived  the  latter  part  of  December,  1866,  without 
any  serious  accidents  except  for  the  loss  of  a  few  work  cattle, 
horses  and  mules  on  account  of  lack  of  feed.  Here  that  part 
of  the  train  consisting  of  horse  and  mule  teams,  which  was 
going  to  the  Missouri  River,  left  us,  taking  all  the  bales  of 

103 


104  Trails  of  Yesterday 

buffalo  robes,  skins  and  furs.  The  ox  teams,  now  with  empty 
wagons,  followed  in  easy  drives  to  their  destination,  Fort 
Mitchell,  fifty-five  miles  east  of  Fort  Laramie. 

Before  our  arrival  at  Fort  Mitchell  we  heard  of  the  Phil 
Kearny  Massacre.  Out  of  seventy-eight  men  and  officers  who 
went  into  that  fight  not  one  escaped  alive.  Poor  Kellogg, 
Wheatley,  our  mining  chum,  and  other  civilians  who  went 
with  the  troops,  shared  a  similar  fate.  If  I  had  remained 
at  the  fort,  the  fate  of  these  men  would  have  been  mine.  Like 
some  of  the  officers  who  went  with  this  company,  the  civilians 
were  scalped,  cut  and  butchered  to  pieces  and  their  hearts  and 
tongues  cut  out.  Some  of  the  hearts  were  eaten  by  the  savages 
to  make  them  brave.  Nearly  every  bone  in  the  bodies  of  the 
whites  was  laid  bare  by  the  cruel  knife.  Large  piles  of  empty 
cartridge  shells  lay  near  many  of  the  bodies,  especially  near 
Major  Brown's,  Wheatley's  and  Kellogg's.  The  Indians 
had  led  the  troops  into  ambush  where  they  closed  in  on  them, 
allowing  none  to  escape. 

Such  was  the  Phil  Kearny  Massacre  on  December  21, 
1866.  It  was  well  I  obeyed  that  warning  or  I  would  not  be 
here  writing  this  autobiography.  It  makes  me  sad  to  think 
how  these  brave  men  died.  They  sold  their  lives  dearly.  It 
is  said  that  after  killing  all  the  Indians  they  could  and  seeing 
their  comrades  mowed  down  beside  them  by  a  force  of  nearly 
twenty  to  one,  with  no  possible  chance  to  escape,  some  of  the 
officers  and  men  shot  themselves  rather  than  be  captured 
alive  by  the  savages.  Long  before  this  I  had  determined  to 
do  so  rather  than  be  captured  by  Indians.  For  some  months 
I  had  carried  a  sharp  dirk,  intending  to  send  its  keen  blade 
into  my  heart  rather  than  submit  to  capture  by  them.  I  knew 
well  the  kind  of  death  I  would  die  if  my  red  brothers  had  the 
management,  since  I  have  seen  many  of  the  frightfully  muti- 
lated bodies  of  their  white  victims. 

On  one  trip  from  Fort  Laramie  to  Fort  Mitchell  we  saw 
some  small  bands  of  Indians  between  Reynolds'  ranch  and 
Horse  Creek,  but  the  extreme  cold  weather  prevailing  had 
apparently  congealed  their  energies,  since  they  made  only 


Trails  of  Yesterday  105 

a  weak  attempt  to  harass  us.     They  proved  tame  compared 
to  the  Indians  around  Phil  Kearny. 

On  arrival  at  Fort  Mitchell,  which  was  then  a  two  com- 
pany adobe  fort  beside  Jack  Sibson's  stage  station  and  road 
ranch,  we  overtook  the  mules  and  horse  teams  that  left  us  at 
Fort  Laramie.  They  had  been  resting  and  waiting  for  the 
melting  of  the  snow  that  had  almost  blocked  the  deep  and 
narrow  trail  through  Scott's  Bluff.  The  second  day  after 
our  arrival  the  stage  coach  from  the  East  and  a  twelve-wagon 
mule  train  came  through  the  bluffs  and  opened  the  trail  so 
our  horse  and  mule  trains,  with  all  extra  bullwhackers  we 
could  spare,  pulled  out  for  Nebraska  City.  The  wagons  were 
formed  in  a  circle  near  the  corral,  stripped  of  bows  and 
sheets,  and  the  ox  yokes  and  chains  all  stored  under  cover  at 
the  Sibson  road  ranch,  with  the  exception  of  one  covered 
wagon  with  necessary  provisions,  two  yoke  of  cattle  and  three 
horses  in  charge  of  three  men,  including  Al  Hale,  the  wagon 
boss,  who  went  out  to  Robideaux  Springs  with  the  cattle 
where  we  intended  to  winter  them. 

After  assisting  in  taking  the  steers  to  the  winter  camp, 
which  lay  some  miles  south  of  Scott's  Bluff,  Mr.  Carter 
instructed  me  to  remain  at  the  ranch  and  make  myself  useful  in 
any  capacity  required  by  Mr.  Jack  Sibson,  who  for  a  time 
seemed  to  look  on  me  as  an  intruder.  Confidentially,  Mr. 
Carter  told  me  that  he  and  General  Coe  had  sold  the  ranch 
and  considerable  stock,  of  which  he  gave  me  a  list,  to  Captain 
Childs  and  Jack  Sibson,  partly  on  time,  and  that  Mr.  Childs 
had  sold  his  interest  in  the  ranch  and  stock  to  Mr.  Sibson, 
who  was  in  default  in  payments  of  both  interest  and  principal, 
and  I  was  to  remain  at  the  ranch  to  keep  tab  on  the  stock 
and  merchandise.  With  these  instructions  Mr.  Carter  left 
on  the  first  coach  going  east  for  the  Missouri  River. 

This  was  not  an  enviable  job  and  I  would  like  to  have 
gotten  out  of  it,  but  Mr.  Carter,  whom  I  learned  to  like, 
insisted  that  I  remain.  I  do  not  think  that  Mr.  Carter  had 
told  Mr.  Sibson  why  he  wanted  me  to  remain  but,  no  doubt, 
Mr.  Sibson  suspected  the  reason.    I  had  dropped  in  as  a  bull- 


106  Trails  of  Yesterday 

whacker  out  of  a  winter's  job  and  had  been  recommended  by 
Mr.  Carter  as  a  good,  reliable  man.  Mr.  Sibson  agreed  to 
pay  me  $40.00  per  month  and  I  was  to  make  myself  useful  at 
anything. 

One  thing  I  disliked  about  the  road  ranch  was  that  Jack 
Sibson  kept  a  Sioux  squaw  ostensibly  to  do  the  cooking,  with 
which  Mr.  Sibson,  the  stage  tenders  and  I  often  helped, 
especially  when  the  stage  coaches  came  in  filled  with  pas- 
sengers, some  of  whom  were  very  prominent  people,  who  had, 
however,  left  their  frills  at  home.  The  road  ranch  was  large, 
built  of  cedar  logs  and  had  seven  fair-sized  rooms  besides  the 
store.  It  had  dirt  floors  and  roof.  It  had  a  large  corral 
built  out  of  cedar  logs  set  closely  together,  some  three  or  four 
feet  in  the  ground  and  standing  eight  feet  high  above  the 
ground,  with  port  holes  on  all  sides.  The  large  log  stables 
were  built  to  accommodate  the  stage  stock  and  emigrant 
travel  and  were  located  inside  the  log  corral  or  stockade.  We 
milked  a  number  of  cows,  butter  selling  readily  from  fifty 
cents  to  seventy-five  cents  per  pound.  There  was  also  a  good- 
sized  bunch  of  ponies  and  some  work  cattle  and  horses.  These 
were  kept  for  trading  purposes. 

There  were  several  Indian  tepees  pitched  outside  but 
near  the  corrals.  A  large  one  was  occupied  by  John  Hunter, 
a  white  man  who  had  married  General  Garner's  squaw  wife, 
by  whom  Mr.  Hunter  had  several  half-breed  children.  The 
other  tepees  were  occupied  by  relatives  and  friends  of  Mr. 
Hunter's  Indian  family.  The  fort  across  the  road  was  gar- 
risoned by  two  companies  of  the  Eighteenth  Infantry  under 
Captain  Hughes.  One  company  had  been  mounted.  His 
garrison  was  kept  busy  protecting  the  stage  coaches,  road- 
ranches  between  Fort  Laramie  and  Pole  Creek,  and  freight 
and  emigrant  trains,  and  keeping  up  the  overland  telegraph 
line  built  by  Edward  Creighton  and  others. 

During  pleasant  days  the  stock  was  allowed  to  graze 
outside  in  charge  of  a  herder  and  was  corralled  at  nights. 
The  store  carried  the  usual  stock  of  a  road  ranch — clothing., 
provisions,  including  canned  goods,  and  plenty  of  whiskey, 


Brigham  Young,  Born  1S01,  Died  i8jj 


Trails  of  Yesterday  107 

much  of  which  was  adulterated  behind  closed  doors  by  Mr. 
Sibson.  He  would  never  let  me  into  this  secret  but  I  think, 
from  observation,  much  of  the  adulteration  was  tobacco 
juice.  We  also  sold  buffalo  robes,  elk  and  deer  skins,  har- 
ness, saddles,  guns,  revolvers,  ammunition,  and  many  other 
articles  too  numerous  to  mention. 

I  was  pleased  one  day  when  Mr.  Sibson  told  me  he 
had  taken  a  one  hundred-cord  wood  contract  to  be  delivered 
at  the  fort,  and  I,  another  bullwhacker  and  John  Duval, 
a  colored  man,  were  set  to  work  filling  it.  As  a  rule  we 
made  two  trips  a  day  with  horse  teams.  The  wood  in  dead 
tree  lengths  was  easily  obtained  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
bitter  cold  weather,  the  work  would  have  been  a  picnic  except 
for  the  poor  food  given  us. 

Mr.  Sibson,  without  exception,  was  the  stingiest  man  I 
ever  met.  For  a  time  the  officers  at  the  fort  took  their  meals 
at  our  ranch,  but  the  food  and  cooking  became  so  bad  they 
had  to  quit.  For  transient  guests,  going  through  by  stage 
coach  or  otherwise,  who  desired  meals  and  lodging,  the  qual- 
ity was  some  better,  canned  goods  being  used  more  or 
less.  Deer,  elk,  buffalo  and  bear  meat  and  bacon  would  be 
fried,  and  salt,  cream  of  tartar  and  soda  would  be  used  in 
the  biscuits.  The  beds,  made  on  the  dirt  floors,  consisted  of 
buffalo,  elk  and  bear  skins,  with  whatever  could  be  found  for 
a  pillow.  Ladies  did  not  mind  in  the  least  if  their  bed  cover- 
ing adjoined  that  of  another  bed  occupied  by  some  strange 
man,  especially  if  their  husbands  or  relatives  were  along. 

I  remember  Brigham  Young's  sharing  my  bed  for  two 
nights.  He  was  on  his  way  to  Salt  Lake  by  stage  coach  and 
awaited  the  arrival  at  our  ranch  of  a  Mormon  train  that  he 
had  passed  on  the  other  side  of  Chimney  Rock.  He  was  one 
of  the  nicest  and  most  sociable  men  I  have  ever  met.  No  one 
could  know  him  and  not  like  him. 

When  the  telegraph  wires  were  not  working  between  Fort 
Laramie,  our  ranch,  Mud  Springs  or  Pole  Creek,  and  stage 
coaches  were  not  making  their  usual  trips,  I  was  often  called 
upon  to  carry  dispatches  to  these  different  points.     My  trip 


108 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


to  Fort  Laramie,  fifty-five  miles  distant,  was  usually  made 
in  eight  or  nine  hours,  either  day  or  night,  the  latter  being 
preferable.  To  make  these  sometimes  dangerous  rides  I 
selected  the  best  horses  in  our  bunch.  I  could  tell  of  some 
exciting  trips  that  I  was  called  upon  to  make  in  this  work. 
On  the  night  Mr.  Gilman  and  Mr.  Kountz  lost  their  twenty- 
eight  four-mule  teams  while  camped  within  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  of  our  ranch  and  Fort  Mitchell,  the  stage  coach  coming 
from  Laramie  or  Reynolds'  stage  station  was  chased  the  last 
five  miles  of  the  road  up  to  the  door  of  the  ranch  by  a  large 


Stage  Coach  Chased  by  Indians 

bunch  of  Indians,  said  to  be  Big  Mouth's  band  of  Sioux. 
One  dead  passenger  was  in  this  coach. 

The  wires  were  down  and  I  was  called  upon  to  make  the 
trip  to  Fort  Laramie  that  night  with  a  rush  message.  I 
arrived  at  Antone  Reynolds'  Ranch  between  one  and  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  dogs  at  the  ranch  were  barking 
loudly.  I  commenced  to  whistle,  which  probably  saved 
my  life,  since  on  nearing  the  ranch  Mr.  Reynolds  with  gun 
in  hand  halted  me,  shouting,  "Stop!"  I  answered,  telling 
him  who  I  was,  when  I  was  allowed  to  approach.  He  won- 
dered how  I  got  there,  asking  whether  I  had  been  attacked 


Trails  of  Yesterday  109 

by  Indians.  He  said  a  bunch  had  been  bothering  him  all 
night  and  had  finally  ridden  away,  driving  away  all  his  stock 
after  trying  their  best  to  burn  his  ranch.  He  begged  me  to 
stay  with  him  until  daylight,  saying  that  I  would  run  into 
the  Indians  and  get  killed,  but  I  could  not  remain.  I  had 
positive  orders  to  get  to  Laramie  by  six  o'clock  that  morning 
and  I  had  twenty-eight  miles  yet  to  go.  A  little  light  was 
peeping  out  of  the  eastern  horizon  as  I  galloped  past  Jule 
Coffee's  ranch,  six  miles  east  of  Laramie,  and  I  arrived  at 
the  latter  place  and  delivered  my  message  to  General  Palmer 
about  forty  minutes  later. 

On  this  trip  I  passed  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  several 
hundred  warriors  and  was  right  behind  the  thieving  band  who 
cleaned  out  Mr.  Reynolds'  ranch.  But  I  missed  them  all, 
thanks  again  to  my  "Guardian  Angel." 

Another  trip  I  tried  to  make  to  Fort  Laramie  in  June, 
1867,  m  which  I  was  not  so  fortunate.  Mr.  Sibson  had  sold 
twelve  head  of  work  cattle  to  Ben  Mills,  clerk  of  Seth  Bullock, 
the  sutler,  arranging  that  I  should  drive  them  up  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  was  hoping  that  some  ox-train  would  be  coming 
along  soon  in  which  I  could  take  the  steers  but  there  was  none 
reported  on  the  trail  between  our  ranch  and  Mud  Springs, 
hence  in  order  to  keep  faith  with  Mr.  Mills,  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  take  them. 

The  Indians,  encouraged  by  their  successes  at  Fort 
Phil  Kearny  and  other  points,  began  to  make  it  hotter  for 
the  whites  all  along  the  Phil  Kearny  trail,  north  and  east 
as  far  down  as  old  Fort  Kearny  and  even  on  the  trail  to 
Denver.  Unfortunately  I  had  incurred  the  ill  will  of  Big 
Mouth  and  a  few  other  Indians  living  around  the  Mitchell 
ranch  because  I  would  not  give  them  whiskey.  Big  Mouth 
was  a  sub-chief  under  Spotted  Tail  of  the  Oglala  band. 
When  I  refused  Big  Mouth  the  liquor  he  became  very  angry, 
pulled  his  tomahawk  out  of  his  belt  and  struck  at  my  head. 
My  dodging  backwards  saved  my  life.  He  missed  my  head 
about  an  inch.  He  rushed  out  of  the  store,  saying,  "Sichie 
wa  sichie,"  meaning  that  I  was  a  bad  white  man  and  punc- 


110  Trails  of  Yesterday 

tuated  that  remark  by  shouting  he  would  kill  me  the  first 
chance  he  had  and  I  knew  he  would  do  so  if  he  ever  got  the 
drop  on  me. 

I  tried  to  keep  it  quiet  that  I  was  going  to  take  twelve 
steers  to  Fort  Laramie  and  thought  I  had  done  so  but  it 
proved  otherwise.  About  nine  o'clock  at  night  I  was  all 
ready  and  had  one  of  the  stage  tenders  open  the  corral  gate. 
I  was  well  mounted  and  armed  with  a  Sharp's  carbine,  two 
revolvers,  a  belt  full  of  cartridges,  and  my  usual  sharp  knife 
stuck  in  my  boot  leg.  I  had  a  soldier's  overcoat  tied  on  the 
back  of  my  saddle.  I  had  some  trouble  in  getting  the  steers 
to  leave  the  ranch  but  finally  got  them  on  the  trail.  The 
night  was  rather  warm  and  somewhat  dark.  The  quarter 
moon  was  hidden  by  clouds.  On  the  distant  horizon  in  the 
northwest  could  be  seen  an  occasional  flash  of  lightning.  The 
wind  began  to  rise  and  before  I  had  traveled  five  miles  the 
clouds  became  black,  and  muffled  sounds  of  distant  thunder 
could  be  heard;  the  wind  blew  in  gusts  and  the  lightning 
became  more  vivid.  The  steers  were  hard  to  keep  on  the  trail. 
At  times  they  would  stop,  raise  their  noses  and  sniff  the  rain- 
laden  breeze. 

I  had  probably  gone  ten  miles  when  the  lightning  increased 
in  vividness  and  the  thunder  became  louder.  The  wind  blew 
so  hard  it  was  difficult  to  face  it.  The  rain  fell  in  great  drops 
and  from  a  distance  could  be  heard  the  approaching  storm, 
which  the  steers  refused  to  face,  but  turned  their  backs  and 
commenced  to  drift  slowly  with  it.  Though  in  front  of  them 
and  doing  my  best  to  hold  them,  it  took  hard  riding  to  keep 
the  steers  close  to  the  trail,  which  I  could  only  see  by  the 
flashes  of  lightning.  The  driver  of  the  stage  coach,  that 
arrived  at  the  ranch  about  two  hours  before  I  started,  had 
warned  me  of  seeing  several  Indian  tepees  near  the  south 
bank  of  the  North  Platte  River  about  where  the  storm  struck 
me;  this  made  me  cautious  in  hallooing  at  the  steers  while 
driving  them.  The  rain  fell  in  sheets  and  many  streams  of 
storm  water  came  rolling  down  the  draws  to  the  left  of  the 
trail  and  across  it.    The  rain  finally  ceased.    Although  I  had 


Trails  of  Yesterday  111 

put  on  my  overcoat,  I  was  wet  to  the  skin  and  my  long-legged 
boots  were  full  of  water.  I  got  cold  and  dismounted,  walking 
to  warm  me.  The  little  moon  began  to  show  itself  as  the 
clearing  clouds  swiftly  rolled  past  it. 

I  had  walked  about  a  mile,  when  in  a  small  depression  of 
the  trail,  much  like  the  bottom  of  a  saucer,  my  horse  suddenly 
stopped,  wheeled  around,  and  with  head  and  ears  erect,  faced 
to  the  east  and  commenced  to  prance  around.  His  actions 
told  me  quickly  that  something  was  wrong.  I  soothed  him  all 
I  could  and  tightened  the  cinch  of  my  saddle.  I  tried  my  two 
revolvers,  that  were  loaded  with  paper  cartridges — all  wet 
and  worthless.  I  knew  I  would  have  to  depend  on  my  carbine 
with  its  metallic  cartridges  and  my  bowie  knife.  During 
this  short  interval  my  horse  became  more  excited  and  came 
very  near  breaking  away  from  me.  He  was  an  Indian  war 
horse.  The  Cheyennes  and  Arapahoes  had  owned  him  and 
Mr.  Sibson  had  bought  him  from  the  Sioux.  He  had  been 
in  many  a  battle  between  Indians  and  between  Indians  and 
whites.  Though  he  was  nervous,  he  was  gentle  and  I  could 
guide  him  with  my  knees  without  a  bridle.  The  steers  were 
tired  and  stood  resting,  but  with  ears  pricked  and  faces 
towards  the  east,  like  the  horse.  I  could  see  nothing  and 
hear  only  an  occasional  howl  of  wolves. 

I  finally  put  my  ear  to  the  ground  and  after  listening  a 
few  moments,  I  heard  a  faint  noise  not  unlike  the  jingling  of 
bells,  and  other  Indian  trappings,  and  on  rising  to  my  feet 
and  looking  towards  the  horizon,  I  faintly  saw  the  outlines 
of  one,  two,  three  and  other  mounted  objects,  apparently 
approaching  between  hill  and  sky.  In  an  instant  I  was  on 
my  horse,  attempting  to  stampede  the  cattle,  but  being  tired 
they  merely  stood  and  looked  at  me.  The  next  moment  I 
was  brought  to  my  sense  of  danger  by  hearing  the  war-whoop 
yell.  I  imagine  I  can  hear  that  yell  as  I  sit  penning  these 
lines.  It  was  given  in  earnest  and  with  vigor.  Had  I  been  a 
black-haired  man  I  think  my  hair  would  have  turned  white 
as  they  came  galloping  toward  me.  Fortunately  I  had 
tightened  the  cinch  on  my  saddle.      I  heard  one  voice,  that  I 


112  Trails  of  Yesterday 

recognized  as  Big  Mouth's,  yell  in  Sioux:  "Stop,  Yellow 
Hair.  We  have  you  now!"  I  had  sent  my  spurs  into  my 
horse's  flanks  and  was  going  as  fast  as  I  could,  lying  almost 
flat  on  my  horse's  back  to  avoid  the  arrows  that  were  drop- 
ping around  me. 

I  intended,  if  possible,  to  reach  the  Charley  Blunt  ranch, 
which  a  few  months  previous  had  been  abandoned  by  Mr. 
Blunt  on  account  of  frequent  Indian  raids.  Mr.  Blunt's  road 
ranch,  rather  a  small  one,  was  built  near  the  mouth  of  a  draw 
at  the  foot  hills  and  had  an  outlet  up  the  draw  by  under- 
ground passage.  My  intention  was  to  get  to  this  and,  if  pos- 
sible, fight  off  my  pursuers.  Before  I  realized  it,  my  horse 
plunged  into  Horse  Creek,  which  was  bank  full  and  rushing 
its  storm  water  into  the  North  Platte  River  less  than  one-half 
mile  distant.  I  came  very  near  being  dismounted.  The 
strong  current  threw  my  horse  on  his  side,  forcing  me  out  of 
the  saddle  for  a  moment.  The  Indians,  some  twelve  or  more 
in  number,  were  gaining  on  me.  I  had  fired  one  shot  out  of 
my  carbine  at  the  Indians,  which,  if  it  did  not  hit,  checked 
them  for  a  few  moments.  While  I  was  struggling  to  get  up 
the  bank  on  the  west  side  of  the  creek,  some  of  the  Indians 
were  floundering  in  the  water  on  the  east  bank.  I  saw  it 
would  be  impossible  to  reach  the  Blunt  ranch,  so  turned  my 
horse's  head  down  the  creek  on  the  west  side,  thinking  I 
could  get  into  the  brush  and  maybe  save  myself.  The  con- 
tinued yells  and  flying  arrows  served  to  make  me  urge  my 
horse  faster  and  before  realizing  my  danger,  I  was  carried 
over  the  six-foot  bank  into  the  rushing  waters  of  the  North 
Platte  River.  The  plunge  over  the  bank  into  the  river,  which 
at  this  point  was  nearly  two-thirds  of  a  mile  wide,  was  a 
surprise  to  the  Indians  as  well  as  myself  and  horse.  One  of 
the  Indians  came  near  following  on  top  of  me.  Throwing 
his  pony  on  his  haunches  saved  both.  The  Indians  had  sent 
one  arrow  into  my  horse's  left  cushion,  which  I  knew  pained 
him,  judging  from  the  way  he  favored  that  leg.  On  striking 
the  water  I  was  instantly  lifted  out  of  my  saddle  as  my  horse 
went  under.     I  lost  my  carbine  and  hat  and  for  a  time  my 


Trails  of  Yesterday  113 

horse,  who  came  up  several  yards  from  me  down  stream. 
Though  weighted  down  with  two  revolvers,  a  belt  full  of 
cartridges  and  a  heavy,  wet  overcoat,  it  was  but  a  short  time 
before  I  caught  hold  of  my  horse's  tail  and  worked  my  way 
swimming  to  the  stirrups  and  bridle  rein,  which,  fortunately, 
dropped  over  the  saddle  horn.  I  immediately  commenced  to 
slacken  my  cinch,  when  my  horse  commenced  to  swim 
better.  It  had  been  about  all  he  could  do  to  keep  his 
head  above  water.  Aided  by  the  current,  I  was  carried 
from  the  bank  toward  the  middle  of  the  river  and  very 
soon  out  of  reach  of  the  arrows  of  the  Indians,  who  seemed 
to  be  still  walking  their  ponies  on  the  bank  down  stream. 
They  called  me  to  come  back,  saying  they  would  get  me  yet. 

I  had  continued  swimming  along  the  side  of  my  horse 
until  I  reached  what  I  thought  to  be  about  the  middle  of  the 
river,  when  the  water  became  shallower.  Several  times  I 
felt  like  giving  up,  I  became  so  tired  and  exhausted.  The  water 
was  now  about  up  to  my  waist.  I  took  off  my  overcoat, 
revolvers,  belt  of  cartridges  and  threw  them  in  the  river  and 
pulled  the  arrow  out  of  the  horse's  cushion,  then  mounted 
and  headed  the  best  I  could  for  the  north  bank  of  the  river. 
It  was  not  long  before  I  was  in  swimming  water  and  the 
steep  river  bank  ahead  of  me  began  to  show  itself.  I  floated 
down  stream  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  before  I  could  find  a  place 
to  get  out,  but  my  horse  could  not  climb  the  steep  bank  and 
fell  backwards  into  the  river,  pulling  me  in  after  him  where 
I  swam  along  by  his  side.  My  faithful  horse  seemed  to 
realize,  like  myself,  that  it  was  a  fight  for  life  for  both  of  us. 
He  was  willing  at  all  times  to  obey  my  slightest  wish. 

After  swimming  for  some  distance  along  the  north  bank 
of  the  river  I  came  to  the  mouth  of  Small  Creek,  where, 
thank  God,  I  got  out.  The  arrow  wound  in  my  horse's 
cushion  was  yet  bleeding  slightly  and  I  got  a  handful  of  wet 
soil  and  pressed  it  over  the  wound.  I  took  the  bit  out  of  his 
mouth  and  held  him  by  the  lariat,  allowing  him  to  graze 
while  I  stood  holding  him,  chilled  with  cold. 

Do  not  wonder,  kind  reader,  if  I  offered  up  to  Him  who 


114  Trails  of  Yesterday 

controls  the  destinies  of  nations  as  well  as  of  men  a  short 
prayer,  thanking  Him  and  that  same  Guardian  Angel  for 
bringing  me  through  in  safety. 

The  last  sound  from  the  Indians  indicated  that  they  had 
followed  down  the  river.  I  learned  afterwards  that  some  of 
them  did  this,  expecting  that  I  would  recross,  when  they  would 
intercept  me.  Others,  I  was  informed,  took  the  twelve  steers 
west  to  some  Indian  camp  on  the  La  Bonta. 

I  began  to  hear  dogs  barking  and  concluded  I  could  not 
be  far  from  the  Raw  Hide  Agency  or  some  band  of  Indians 
camped  close  to  there.  It  must  have  been  between  one  and 
two  o'clock  and  I  knew  that  if  I  remained  there  until  day- 
break I  would  be  captured  by  some  of  the  Raw  Hide  band. 
I  finally  decided  to  walk  up  the  river,  leading  my  horse  in 
order  to  keep  warm.  I  had  gone  nearly  two  miles  without 
finding  an  inlet  into  the  river.  The  barking  of  the  dogs 
became  louder  and  made  me  more  anxious  to  cross  the  river 
and  to  hurry  matters.  I  mounted  my  horse  and  struck  a  trot. 
I  think  I  had  gone  about  two  and  one-half  miles  when  I  found 
a  sand  bar  at  the  mouth  of  a  draw  that  led  into  the  river, 
which  I  felt  confident  I  could  cross.  I  was  soon  in  swimming 
water,  then  shallower.  My  horse  went  down  in  the  quicksand 
several  times  but  giving  him  the  rein  and  his  time,  he  wal- 
lowed out  of  it.  I  began  to  see  the  bank  which  was  too  steep 
to  climb.  Later  I  found  a  place  where  the  bank  had  caved 
in  more  or  less  and  by  getting  off  my  horse  I  succeeded  in 
getting  him  up  the  bank  and  was  once  more  on  terra  firma, 
not  very  far  west  of  the  mouth  of  Horse  Creek  where  the 
Indians  ran  me  into  the  river.  When  I  crossed  the  creek,  one- 
half  mile  south  of  the  trail,  it  had  gone  down  and  resumed 
its  normal  size. 

I  was  numb  with  cold  with  not  a  dry  thread  on  me  and 
had  not  had  any  food  for  nearly  six  hours. 

Day  was  peeping  as  I  got  fairly  into  the  hills  one-half 
mile  or  more  south  of  the  trail.  My  horse  was  getting  quite 
lame  and  did  not  look  like  the  same  animal  I  started  out  on 
a  few  hours  before.     His  slow  gait  told  the  hardship  he  had 


Trails  of  Yesterday  115 

gone  through.  To  ease  him  and  keep  myself  warm  I  walked, 
hugging  the  south  tips  of  the  bluffs  with  a  view  to  looking 
over  the  Platte  Valley  for  Indians,  especially  for  Big  Mouth 
and  his  band  of  outlaws.  I  failed  to  see  any  or  anything  of 
the  twelve  head  of  work  steers.  They  had,  I  presumed,  been 
driven  off.  The  sun  came  up  bright  and  warm,  which  I  ap- 
preciated very  much  as  my  clothes  were  yet  wet. 

I  reached  the  ranch  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  and 
the  first  Indian  to  greet  me  was  Big  Mouth.  He,  like  the 
many  soldiers  that  soon  surrounded  me,  wanted  to  know  what 
had  happened  to  me  and  the  cattle.  I  told  them  Big  Mouth 
well  knew  what  had  happened  and  knew  where  the  cattle 
had  been  taken.  A  few  days  later  he  told  me  that  I  had 
escaped  this  time  but  he  would  fix  me  yet. 

A  short  time  after  this  one  of  the  Indians  who  was  in  the 
party  with  Big  Mouth  told  me  that  Big  Mouth  led  the  twelve 
Indians  to  kill  me  and  capture  the  cattle,  which  four  of  the 
Indians  had  taken  to  Black  Dog's  camp  on  La  Bonta  Creek. 
Big  Mouth  having  learned  that  I  had  been  told  that  he  led  the 
attack  and  knew  where  the  steers  had  been  taken,  to  save 
himself  from  arrest,  came  and  told  me  that  it  was  a  joke 
they  played  on  me  and  that  I  would  find  the  steers  all  right 
at  Black  Dog's  camp  if  I  would  go  and  get  them,  and  if  the 
steers  were  not  there,  I  would  find  them  at  Jim  Bellamy's 
ranch  west  of  Fort  Laramie. 

A  few  days  after  learning  where  the  steers  were  I  started 
to  get  them,  riding  to  Fort  Laramie  the  first  night  and  the 
next  day  to  Bellamy's  road  ranch  about  fourteen  miles  west  of 
the  fort. 

Between  the  fort  and  Bellamy's  ranch  I  overtook  a  very 
interesting  specimen  of  a  degenerate  white  man.  He  was 
rather  short  and  heavy  set,  dark  complexioned  and  with  long, 
matted  hair  and  beard.  His  clothes  were  a  combination  of 
soldier's  clothes,  canvas  and  buckskin.  He  wore  moccasins 
and  had  two  revolvers  and  a  knife  fastened  to  his  belt  of 
cartridges.  Upon  overtaking  him  he  wanted  to  know  where 
I  was  from,  where  I  was  going,  and  many  other  pertinent 


116  Trails  of  Yesterday 

questions  which  I  answered  evasively.  He  said  I  was  riding 
a  good  horse,  asked  what  I  would  take  for  her  and  whether 
I  would  not  let  him  try  her  a  little  ways.  I  told  him  I  did  not 
care  to  part  with  her.  This  horse  was  a  seven-eighths  thor- 
oughbred Kentucky  mare  that  I  had  borrowed  from  Bob 
Mason,  who  remained  at  the  Mitchell  ranch  courting  "Puss," 
John  Hunter's  half-breed  stepdaughter,  while  I  went  to  get 
and  turn  the  steers  over  to  Ben  Miles,  the  sutler's  clerk  at  Fort 
Laramie.     I  kept  my  new  friend  in  the  best  humor  I  could 


A  Degenerate  White  Man 

and  he  seemed  to  appreciate  my  company  by  pulling  from  his 
inside  shirt  pocket  a  bottle  of  whiskey  which  he  offered  and  in- 
sisted I  should  drink.  I  told  him  I  could  not  drink  it  as  the 
smell  of  it  made  me  sick.  He  then  asked  me  what  day  of 
the  week  it  was,  the  date  and  year,  which  I  thought  I  an- 
swered correctly  but  he  denied  it,  saying  it  was  a  damned  lie. 
I  eased  him  up  by  saying  he  might  be  right.  He  then  wanted 
to  know  if  I  smoked.  I  told  him  I  did  not.  Did  I  chew? 
I  said  "no."  Did  I  play  cards?  I  answered  that  I  did  not. 
He  then  asked  me,  "What  kind  of  a  damned  man  are  you 
anyway?" 

While  carrying  on  this  conversation  we  walked  along  the 


Trails  of  Yesterday  117 

trail,  when  shortly,  to  my  relief,  we  met  an  old  Indian  and 
his  squaw  and  the  three  commenced  talking  in  Sioux  language. 
I  finally  broke  away  from  this  trio.  When  I  left,  the  Indian 
had  the  bottle  and  my  white  friend  was  making  eyes  at  the 
squaw  and  the  squaw  was  casting  one  eye  at  her  white  friend. 
The  other  eye  was  blind. 

I  left  under  protest  and  was  glad  to  get  away.  Had  I 
continued  my  journey  with  him  I  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  he  would  have  killed  me  and  taken  the  horse.  While 
walking  with  him  he  tried  to  keep  on  my  right,  while  I  worked 
every  scheme  to  keep  him  on  my  left  near  the  muzzle  of  the 
gun  I  carried  in  front  of  me. 

I  arrived  at  Bellamy's  ranch  before  dark  and  received 
information  as  to  where  the  twelve  steers  were.  Mr.  Bel- 
lamy kept  a  large  ranch  made  out  of  logs  and  sod.  He  had 
two  squaws  and  a  large  family  of  papooses,  some  of  them  in 
their  teens.  He  had  a  young  man  working  for  him  who  had 
come  from  the  East  some  two  months  before.  I  think  he 
was  an  outlaw.  He  told  me  confidentially  that  he  had  bought 
a  squaw  that  day  and  was  celebrating  the  event  by  trying  his 
best  to  get  drunk  and  was  succeeding  to  a  great  extent.  I  saw 
the  young  squaw — rather  a  nice-looking  girl,  whom  I  could 
not  help  but  pity.  The  young  man  said  he  had  given  her 
parents  two  ponies  for  her.  Her  parents  came  back  in  the 
evening  and  wanted  some  additional  presents,  but  the  young 
man  refused  to  give  them,  when  the  parents  left  very  angry, 
swearing  vengeance  against  him. 

Mr.  Bellamy  had  shown  me  a  place  to  spread  my  buffalo 
robe  for  the  night  near  the  bed  of  the  young  man  and  his 
bride.  Mr.  Bellamy,  his  squaws  and  family  slept  in  the  other 
end  of  the  large  log  room.  I  had  fallen  asleep  on  a  pile  of  buf- 
falo robes  in  the  store  when  I  was  awakened  by  the  crying  of 
the  girl  whom  I  heard  that  brute  of  a  man  striking  and  curs- 
ing. I  waited  until  all  was  quiet  when  I  stole  into  the  room 
and  lay  down  on  my  robe  and  was  soon  asleep,  only  to  be 
awakened  again  by  the  cursing  of  that  drunken  brute  who 
again  commenced  to  strike  the  girl  lying  beside  him.     I  finally 


118  Trails  of  Yesterday 

told  him  what  I  thought  of  him  and  appealed  to  Mr.  Bellamy 
to  make  him  desist.  The  young  man  became  very  angry  at 
me,  telling  me  it  was  none  of  my  business ;  that  he  had  bought 
that  squaw  and  he  was  going  to  do  what  he  pleased  with  her. 
The  girl  rose  from  her  bed  and  ran  out  of  the  ranch.  He 
tried  to  follow  but  was  too  drunk.  Mr.  Bellamy  finally  told 
him  if  he  struck  that  squaw  again  or  abused  her  in  any  way, 
he  would  fix  him.    After  that  the  night  passed  in  quietness. 

When  I  went  to  get  my  horse  the  next  morning  I  came 
across  the  poor  girl.  Her  face  was  swollen  and  covered 
with  blood,  and  one  eye  was  swollen  shut  from  his  heavy 
blows.    I  did  not  see  him. 

After  breakfast  I  saddled  up  and  started  to  find  the  steers, 
Mr.  Bellamy  giving  me  directions  where  he  thought  I  would 
find  them.  It  was  nearly  an  all-day  trip  but  I  got  them.  When 
I  returned  to  Mr.  Bellamy's  ranch,  part  of  it  was  in  ashes 
and  that  young  man  was  never  seen  or  heard  of  afterward. 
It  was  learned  that  the  girl,  known  as  a  "trading  squaw,"  had 
gone  back  to  her  people  that  morning  and  they,  with  the  help 
of  other  Indians,  came  to  the  Bellamy  ranch  and  caught  and 
killed  the  young  man.  Mr.  Bellamy  and  family  barely 
escaped  with  their  lives,  the  Indians  blaming  him  for  not 
protecting  the  young  squaw. 

I  drove  the  steers  to  Fort  Laramie  before  daylight  and 
later  turned  them  over  to  Ben  Miles,  Seth  Bullock's  clerk,  as 
per  agreement  except  as  to  time.  The  next  day  I  returned  to 
Fort  Mitchell  with  further  reasons  to  thank  that  "Guardian 
Angel."  I  was  beginning  to  think  an  Indian  could  not  harm 
me. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Frontier  Justice — Hunter  Tries  to  Bribe  the  Wrong  Man — A  Forced 

Confession — Negro  John  in  Love  with  Puss — Grandma 

Antelope  is  Active — A  White  Woman  Appears  on 

the  Scene 

AMONG  other  incidents  that  occurred  at  Fort  Mitchell 
during  my  stay  at  this  road  ranch  and  stage  station 
was  one  that  called  for  frontier  justice  as  usually  ad- 
ministered in  those  lawless  days. 

As  previously  stated,  John  Hunter  lived  with  his  Indian 
half-breed  family  in  one  of  the  tepees  near  the  ranch  corral. 
John  was  cross-eyed,  but  could  shoot  straight.  He  could  also 
drink  bad  whiskey,  play  poker,  swear,  and  was  treacherous 
and  cold-blooded  as  an  Indian,  yet  with  all  this  he  had  a  win- 
ning, persuasive  way  about  him  that  usually  succeeded  in 
taking  the  last  dollar  from  the  soldiers,  and  sometimes  the 
officers,  the  stage-tenders,  freighters,  bullwhackers  and  mule 
skinners,  whom  he  would  often  accompany  a  day  or  so  on 
the  trail.  He  made  friends  with  the  officers  and  soldiers  and 
it  was  not  long  before  I  began  to  notice  that  Mr.  Sibson's 
friendship  with  them  was  on  the  wane,  principally  owing  to  his 
narrowness  and  stingy  ways  in  doing  business  and  dealing 
with  them. 

It  happened  one  day  that  the  Indians  had  raided  a  freight 
train  between  Pole  Creek  and  Mitchell  and  the  commander 
of  the  Fort,  Captain  Hughes,  had  taken  what  mounted  men 
he  could  scare  up  of  his  command  and  gone  in  pursuit  of  this 
thieving  band.  The  morning  after  the  departure  of  the 
mounted  troops,  two  soldiers  came  over  to  the  ranch,  claiming 
to  be  sick  and  begged  Mr.  Sibson  to  give  them  each  a  drink 
of  whiskey,  which  he  did,  his  sympathy  in  this  case  getting 
the  better  of  his  judgment.  This  feigned  sickness  was  a  job 
put  up  on  Mr.  Sibson  by  Mr.  Hunter  and  Sergeant  H — . 
In  about  half  an  hour  Sergeant  H —  came  over  and  handed 

119 


120  Trails  of  Yesterday 

to  Mr.  Sibson  a  telegram  the  contents  of  which  read  as 
follows : 

Fort   Laramie, 
John  Sibson, 

Fort  Mitchell. 

You  are  hereby  notified  to  leave  the  Fort  Mitchell  Military  Reser- 
vation immediately. 

(Signed)    General  Palmer. 

Sergeant  H —  gave  Mr.  Sibson  ten  minutes  in  which  to 
leave.  Mr.  Sibson  gave  me  a  bill  of  sale  of  all  his  personal 
property  and  delivered  to  me  a  power  of  attorney  to  act  as 
his  agent  in  all  matters,  and  bidding  me  a  hurried  good-bye, 
started  west  on  horseback.  I  never  saw  or  heard  of  him  after- 
wards. I  had  heard  from  some  source  other  than  Mr.  Sibson, 
that  Mr.  Hunter  and  Captain  Childs  had  had  some  dealings 
which  were  not  settled  satisfactorily  to  Mr.  Hunter. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  Mr.  Sibson  was  ordered  to 
leave  Fort  Mitchell,  little  Billy  Garner,  a  step-son  of  John 
Hunter,  came  over  to  the  ranch  and  informed  me  that  some 
of  the  soldiers  had  our  milk  cows  in  the  fort  stables  and  were 
milking  them.  I  went  over  to  the  stables  and  found  they  had 
saddled  some  of  our  horses  and  mules  and  that  a  soldier  was 
milking  one  of  our  ten  cows.  I  made  the  soldier  stop  milking 
the  cow,  unsaddled  the  animals  and  turning  them  and  the  cows 
outside,  returned  to  the  ranch  by  way  of  Sergeant  H — 's  quar- 
ters but  found  that  gentleman  asleep.  I  had  scarcely  entered 
the  ranch  before  the  sergeant  was  at  my  heels  reproving  me 
severely  for  what  I  had  done  in  standing  on  my  rights. 
Luckily,  I  had  a  friend  in  Operator  Bundy  and  immediately 
sent  a  wire  to  General  Palmer  at  Fort  Laramie,  informing 
him  what  Sergeant  H —  had  done  and  asking  him  by  whose 
authority  he  was  acting.  I  signed  my  name  as  John  Sibson's 
agent.  In  a  short  time  I  received  a  reply  from  General  Pal- 
mer stating  that  Sergeant  H —  had  acted  without  authority 
and  had  been  instructed  to  turn  all  of  Mr.  Sibson's  stock 
over  to  me  and  not  to  interfere  in  civil  matters  again  without 
orders.  Sergeant  H —  received  a  wire  from  General  Palmer 
that  brought  him  to  his  senses.     I  had  established  my  rights 


'Trails  of  Yesterday  121 

as  agent  to  Mr.  Sibson's  property  but  had  incurred  the  deadly 
enmity  of  the  sergeant  and  some  of  the  soldiers,  especially  the 
one  I  knocked  off  his  seat  on  the  milking  stool  while  he  was 
milking  one  of  our  cows. 

That  night  John  Hunter  came  over  to  the  ranch  and  had  a 
long,  confidential  talk  with  me.  Its  substance  was  that  Mr. 
Sibson  owed  him  considerable  money  on  contracts  and  other 
transactions  and  if  I  would  quietly  go  away,  he  would  pay 
me  $3000.00  in  gold.  I  told  him  that  the  proposition  had  come 
so  unexpectedly  that  I  would  want  some  time  to  consider  it. 
He  said  that  was  all  right  if  I  would  not  be  too  long  about 
it  and  intimated  that  it  would  be  but  a  short  job  to  put  me  out 
of  the  way.  I  told  Operator  Bundy  what  had  occurred  and 
that  night  began  sending  messages  to  Mr.  Carter  at  Nebraska 
City,  Denver  and  other  points  and  to  General  Coe,  whom  I 
had  never  seen,  at  Salt  Lake  City  and  other  Western  points, 
telling  both  that  they  had  better  send  some  one  to  take  charge 
of  Mr.  Sibson's  property  as  John  Hunter  with  his  Indians  was 
liable  to  take  it  by  force.  I  could  get  no  word  from  either. 
Mr.  Hunter  had  asked  me  twice  what  I  had  decided  to  do. 
I  told  him  I  was  still  thinking  over  his  proposition.  Yes, 
I  was  thinking  what  a  deep-dyed,  unprincipled  scoundrel  he 
was  to  offer  me  $3000.00  to  betray  my  trust  and  become  a 
thief.     "No!  John  Hunter,  never,  never  1" 

A  few  days  after  this,  Billy  Garner,  referred  to  before  and 
who  has  since  filled  the  position  of  Government  Inspector  at 
Pine  Ridge  Indian  Agency,  came  to  the  ranch  and  stated  that 
John  Hunter  was  mean  to  his  mother,  brothers  and  sisters, 
his  grandmother  and  himself;  that  he  often  whipped  them 
with  a  quirt ;  that  he  had  done  this  last  night  and  that  he  would 
not  put  up  with  it  another  minute.  Billy  was  then  about 
twelve  years  old  and  a  manly  little  boy.  He  wanted  to  know 
whether  I  would  not  loan  him  a  couple  of  revolvers  and  some 
ammunition.  I  told  him  I  would  and  gave  him  two  revolvers 
and  fifty  rounds  of  cartridges.  About  1  130  the  next  morning 
John  Hunter  came  to  the  ranch  and  commenced  kicking  on 
the  door  and  rapping  on  the  window.     I  inquired  what  he 


122  Trails  of  Yesterday 

wanted  and  he  replied  that  he  wanted  me  to  open  the  door  and 
turn  out  his  family  or  he  would  fix  me.  I  informed  him  that 
his  family  was  not  in  the  ranch  and  that  I  knew  nothing  about 
them.  After  making  many  threats  and  uttering  a  basketful 
of  curses,  he  at  last  staggered  to  his  tepee.  The  next  morning 
early  I  heard  him  prowling  around  the  ranch  and  soon  saw 
him  carry  a  black  leather  satchel  to  the  fort  and  in  a  few 
minutes  return  without  it.  I  guessed  what  all  this  meant. 
Shortly  afterward  he  mounted  his  favorite  horse  and  started 
up  the  trail  and  judging  from  the  way  he  watched  the  trail, 
first  on  one  side  of  his  horse  and  then  on  the  other,  I  knew 
he  was  looking  for  tracks.  He  soon  put  his  horse  at  a  fast 
pace.  He  had  evidently  found  their  tracks  and  was  now 
determined  to  overtake  them.  Horse  and  rider  were  quickly 
lost  in  the  distance  and  nothing  indicated  his  course  except 
the  little  cloud  of  dust,  which  finally  disappeared  on  the  trail. 
On  the  third  evening  after  his  departure  he  returned,  armed 
with  the  same  old  trusty  carbine,  two  revolvers  and  bowie 
knife  in  his  right  bootleg,  but  without  his  family.  One  of 
the  stage  drivers  told  me  that  he  had  overtaken  his  family 
at  Antone  Reynolds'  ranch  but  they  refused  to  return  with 
him.     He  was  angry. 

The  next  morning  after  his  return  and  a  visit  to  the  fort, 
he  came  into  the  ranch  and  in  an  appealing  way  intimated  that 
he  was  in  trouble.  I  inquired  what  was  wrong.  He  said 
before  going  after  his  family  he  had  taken  his  satchel  con- 
taining $900.00  to  $1000.00  and  left  it  in  the  safe  keeping 
of  Sergeant  H —  and  that,  unknown  to  the  sergeant,  some  one 
had  gone  through  the  satchel  and  taken  all  the  money.  He  said 
both  he  and  the  sergeant  suspected  Sanders,  who  had  just 
deserted  the  day  he  left  to  hunt  his  family.  I  asked  him 
what  caused  him  to  think  that  Sanders  had  taken  the  money. 
He  answered  because  the  sergeant  and  some  of  the  soldiers 
thought  so  and  his  desertion  at  this  particular  time  seemed  to 
confirm  it.  I  told  him  I  did  not  believe  Sanders,  whom  I 
knew  well,  had  done  anything  of  the  kind.  Sanders  had 
often  called  on  me  to  write  letters  to  his  widowed  mother  and 


Trails  of  Y  enter  day  123 

sisters,  who  seemed  to  be  very  good,  honest  people,  and  since 
they  had  told  him  they  would  like  to  have  him  come  home 
and  work  the  little  farm,  he  had  requested  me  to  write  them 
that  he  would  do  so  as  soon  as  his  time  was  out  in  the  army. 
He  had  about  one  year  yet  to  serve.  I  told  Hunter  that  I  was 
satisfied  that  Sanders  had  not  taken  a  cent  of  his  money  but 
that  Bundy  and  I  would  do  all  in  our  power  to  arrest  him 
and  bring  him  back  and  that  I  thought  I  could  find  his  stolen 
money.  Bundy,  the  operator,  gladly  joined  me  in  the  pro- 
posed plan  to  arrest  Sanders.  Wires  were  quickly  working 
to  Mud  Springs,  Pole  Creek  and  Laramie,  authorizing  the 
arrest  of  Sanders,  a  recent  deserter  and  accused  of  robbery 
of  nearly  $1000.00  at  Fort  Mitchell.  I  then  determined  to 
test  Sergeant  H — 's  nerve  and  honesty  in  the  matter.  Mr. 
Bundy  thought  the  plan  I  proposed  somewhat  severe  but 
consented  to  it.  Mr.  Hunter  was  in  for  anything  that  would 
give  him  back  his  money,  even  to  killing  the  sergeant,  to  which 
both  Mr.  Bundy  and  the  writer  objected.  My  idea  was  to 
scare  him  and  get  him  to  confess  that  he  took  the  money 
himself. 

We  went  out  to  the  log  stable  and  fixed  a  hangman's 
noose  over  one  of  the  roof  logs  and  set  a  box  under  the  noose. 
This  done  and  a  gun  prepared  for  an  emergency,  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  I  should  go  over  to  the  sergeant's  quarters  at  the 
fort  and  invite  him  to  the  ranch,  where  it  was  proposed  to 
question  him  closely  about  the  money  and  if  possible,  get  his 
acknowledgment  of  the  theft — even  if  we  had  to  put  the  rope 
around  his  neck  and  see  some  daylight  between  his  feet  and  the 
box  under  the  noose.  Everything  arranged  and  understood, 
I  went  to  get  the  sergeant,  who  hesitated  at  first  about  coming 
but  I  told  him  he  ought  to  try  to  help  us  recover  Mr.  Hunter's 
money.  He  did  not  know  we  had  had  the  wires  busy  and  that 
Sanders  had  wired  us  from  Mud  Springs  that  he  would  be 
up  on  the  first  coach. 

Once  inside  the  ranch,  I  locked  the  door  and  put  the  key 
in  my  pocket  and  picking  up  a  revolver,  I  joined  Hunter  and 


124  Trails  of  Yesterday 

Bundy  who  were  seated  at  a  table  in  the  dining  room,  inviting 
the  sergeant  to  a  vacant  chair  in  front  of  us.  As  soon  as 
seated  I  accused  the  sergeant  of  stealing  Mr.  Hunter's  money 
and  said  that  everything  pointed  to  him  as  the  thief.  He 
became  very  excited  and  said  he  had  never  seen  or  touched 
a  dollar  of  the  money  and  did  not  know  what  had  become  of 
it,  but  was  satisfied  that  Sanders,  the  deserter,  had  taken  it. 
We  told  him  that  Sanders  had  wired  that  he  would  be  up  on 
the  first  coach  and  that  we  were  satisfied  that  Sanders  had  not 
taken  the  money.  This  information  caused  him  to  become 
more  excited,  and  he  said  he  could  take  an  oath  on  a  stack 
of  Bibles  as  big  as  the  bluff  (meaning  Scott's  Bluff)  that 
he  was  innocent  of  the  charge  and  thought  we  were  doing  him 
a  great  injustice  in  accusing  him  of  the  theft.  We  insisted  that 
he  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  and  give  it  up,  or  we  were  pre- 
pared to  take  extreme  measures  with  him.  We  gave  him  a 
severe  examination,  at  the  end  of  which  all  were  satisfied 
that  he  was  the  guilty  party.  Hunter  threatened  to  kill  him 
right  there,  if  he  did  not  give  him  that  money,  and  I  believe 
he  would  have  done  so  had  not  Bundy  and  I  prevented  it. 
This  hurried  me  to  open  the  rear  door  of  the  ranch  leading  to 
the  stable  and  I  asked  him  to  follow,  which  he  did,  Hunter 
and  Bundy  bringing  up  the  rear  with  revolvers  leveled  on  the 
sergeant  should  he  make  a  break.  It  was  but  a  moment  be- 
fore we  had  him  standing  on  the  box,  his  arms  and  legs  tied 
and  the  noose  adjusted  around  his  neck.  I  told  him  we  were 
sorry  to  have  to  take  such  extreme  measures  with  him  and 
asked  him  whether  he  had  any  word  to  say  or  send  to  his 
friends  before  we  hung  him.  He  said  he  had  not,  and  if  we 
carried  out  our  plan,  we  would  hang  an  innocent  man,  but 
he  was  prepared  to  die.  With  this  remark  we  pulled  him 
up  and  for  a  few  seconds  had  him  swinging  with  the  box 
out  from  under  his  feet.  He  was  getting  black  in  the  face, 
his  eyes  bulging  out,  and  apparently  strangling,  when  we 
concluded  to  let  him  down.  We  laid  him  on  the  ground  and  it 
was  some  time  before  he  revived.    As  soon  as  he  did  we  asked 


Trails  of  Yesterday  125 

him  if  he  wanted  to  pray  or  send  word  to  his  folks.  He  an- 
swered "No"  and  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  He  was 
weakening.  We  told  him  he  had  better  pray  before  we  fin- 
ished him.  He  said  he  would  not  and  we  could  finish  the  job. 
In  an  instant  we  had  him  up  again.  I  had  intentionally  placed 
a  handkerchief  around  his  neck  to  ease  the  tightening  of  the 
rope,  especially  where  the  knot  was  under  his  ear.  It  seemed 
for  a  moment  that  we  had  finished  him.  His  face,  blacker 
than  at  first,  eyes  protruding  and  tongue  out,  he  struggled  hard 
and  at  last  gave  us  a  sign  to  let  him  down.  It  was  about  half 
an  hour  before  he  revived  so  he  could  talk,  when  he  told  us 
that  he  had  taken  the  money  and  that  Sanders  was  innocent. 
He  finally  took  us  over  to  where  he  had  hidden  the  money  in 
a  manure  pile.  It  was  all  there  but  about  $15.00  that  he  had 
given  to  some  of  his  soldiers.     He  was  placed  under  arrest. 

The  next  day  Sanders  came  in  on  the  eastern  coach  and 
told  us  that  the  sergeant  came  to  him  and  told  him  to  desert, 
giving  him  a  gun,  ammunition  and  a  good  lunch,  and  told 
him  not  to  let  him  see  which  way  he  went.  The  sergeant 
acknowledged  this  story  to  be  true. 

The  last  I  saw  of  Sergeant  H —  was  at  Fort  Laramie.  He 
was  wearing  a  ball  and  chain  and  was  later  sent  to  Fort 
Leavenworth  military  prison  to  serve  out  a  well-deserved 
sentence. 

After  this,  John  Hunter  was  my  best  friend  and  I  did  not 
turn  the  ranch  or  any  of  its  property  over  to  him  or  receive 
or  accept  his  $3000.00  or  any  part  of  it.  His  family  later 
returned  to  him  on  his  promise  to  be  good  and  on  the  strength 
of  some  presents  he  distributed  among  them. 

Bob  Mason  had  been  gone  for  some  time  on  one  of  the 
coaches,  bound  for  the  Missouri  River,  from  where  he  in- 
timated he  was  going  to  Texas  with  General  Coe  to  buy 
Texas  cattle.  He  had  not  married  Puss  Garner,  the  beautiful 
half-breed  stepdaughter  of  Mr.  Hunter,  but  Bob  was  very 
much  in  love  with  her  and  promised  to  come  back  some  day 
and  make  her  his  squaw  wife.     It  would  have  pleased  Hunter 


126  Trails  of  Yesterday 

to  have  me  take  Mason's  place,  but  I  preferred  to  have  some- 
thing to  say  about  that.  I  had  made  no  advances  or  encouraged 
Puss  to  come  to  the  ranch  but  she  often  hung  around  the  store 
with  her  little  brothers  and  sisters.  Imagine  my  surprise 
when  one  day  our  colored  man,  John  Duval,  came  to  me  and 
confidentially  informed  me  that  he  was  in  love  with  Puss  and 
would  like  to  make  her  his  wife,  take  her  back  with  him  to  old 
Missouri  and  show  his  old  master  Duval  what  a  nice  girl  he 
had  for  a  wife.  I  frankly  told  John  that  she  would  not  marry 
him  because  the  Sioux  had  no  love  for  the  colored  people 
and  if  any  were  captured  the  Sioux  made  slaves  of  them. 
John  remarked  that  he  did  not  care  what  the  Indians  did  with 
him  if  he  could  buy  Puss.  He  finally  asked  me  to  see  what 
I  could  do  towards  getting  her  for  his  wife.  I  told  him  I 
disliked  very  much  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it,  and  that 
he  might  spend  all  his  money  in  trying  to  get  her  and  then 
she  might  not  accept  him,  when  he  would  blame  me.  He 
had  $600.00  and  would  give  it  all  to  get  her  and  begged  me 
to  see  what  I  could  do.  I  promised  to  speak  to  her  folks  about 
it  and  I  did.  They  ridiculed  the  idea  of  Puss  marrying  a 
negro.  When  they  spoke  to  Puss  about  it  she  became  very 
angry  and  her  old  grandmother  threatened  to  kill  him  if  he 
ever  came  near  Puss,  and  from  that  time  on  she  carried  a 
sharp  butcher  knife  for  John  Duval.  The  old  lady  was  a  full- 
blooded  Oglala  Sioux,  small  of  stature,  deeply  wrinkled, 
thin,  wiry,  had  a  violent  temper,  and  though  I  judged  her  to 
be  over  seventy  years  old,  she  was  as  fleet  of  foot  as  a  deer. 
Once  she  had  chased  me  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  with  a  knife 
because  I  had  dumped  the  carcass  of  a  steer  into  the  river  in- 
stead of  allowing  her  to  take  the  sinews  out  of  it,  and  it  had 
taken  some  time  to  regain  her  good  opinion. 

John  was  persistent  and  bothered  me  considerably  with 
his  love  affairs.  I  told  him  he  might  give  her  and  her  rela- 
tives every  dollar  he  had  and  then  not  get  her,  but  he  did  not 
care  and  wanted  me  to  go  ahead.  I  told  him  he  would  have 
to  present  her  with  two  white  or  spotted  ponies,  a  nice  saddle, 


Trails  of  Yesterday  127 

two  red  blankets,  several  dollars'  worth  of  presents — looking 
glasses,  beads,  paints,  moccasins  and  shawls,  and  numerous 
presents  for  her  friends  and  relatives;  besides  he  would  have 
to  pay  for  a  big  feast  which  might  take  all  his  money  and 
then  not  secure  her.  He  did  not  care  if  it  did  and  said  for  me 
to  go  ahead.  He  bought  the  ponies,  one  white  and  one 
spotted,  a  nice  saddle,  bridle,  blanket  and  lariat,  and  many 
other  presents,  as  previously  enumerated,  for  Puss  and  all  her 
relatives  and  friends.  Puss  hesitated  a  long  time  before  con- 
senting to  even  a  mock  marriage  and  old  Grandma  Antelope 
invested  in  another  whetstone  to  make  her  knife  doubly  sharp 
for  John. 

I  had  a  hard  time  to  get  all  matters  satisfactorily  ar- 
ranged. The  officers  of  the  Post  were  taken  into  the  secret 
and  entered  into  it  with  much  zeal.  Dr.  Cunningham,  the 
Post  Surgeon,  was  to  perform  the  ceremony.  The  ponies, — 
one  bearing  the  saddle,  bridle  and  blanket,  were  tied  to  a 
post  opposite  Puss's  tepee  and  after  a  time  that  Indian  half- 
breed  maiden  came  out,  unsaddled  the  ponies,  carried  the 
saddle,  blanket  and  bridle  into  her  tepee  and  staked  both  the 
ponies  out,  which  meant  she  accepted  John's  good  intentions 
and  the  proposed  marriage  and  festivities  were  set  with  the 
understanding  that  Puss  need  not  live  with  John  or  go  to  Mis- 
souri with  him  unless  she  felt  like  it,  since  it  was  only  a 
mock  marriage,  as  Duval  was  given  to  understand  before  the 
ceremony  took  place. 

We  put  old  Fort  Mitchell  ranch  in  a  blaze  of  light  that 
night.  We  had  no  lamps  in  those  days  but  made  the  twenty- 
pound  candle  box  look  pretty  empty  before  we  got  through 
lighting  up.  We  also  borrowed  several  lanterns  from  the 
fort  and  increased  this  flood  of  light  by  setting  fire  to  rags 
saturated  with  bacon  grease.  The  ranch  presented  a  lively 
appearance. 

Officers,  soldiers,  stage  drivers  and  tenders,  Indians  and 
half-breed,  bullwhackers  and  mule  skinners  were  there,  and 
among  the  noted  guests  who  came  in  on  the  coach  that  evening 


128  Trails  of  Yesterday 

was  the  famous  stage  coach  owner,  Ben  Holladay,  who  de- 
layed the  departure  of  the  west  bound  coach  an  hour  to 
witness  the  ceremony. 

Puss  was  rigged  up  in  all  her  finery  and  looked  very 
pretty.  Her  coal-black  eyes  looked  like  bright  diamonds. 
She  wore  a  beaded  buckskin  jacket,  short  skirt,  leggings  and 
moccasins,  with  a  new  red  blanket  thrown  around  her 
shoulders.  Her  long  black  hair  was  plaited  in  one  long  braid 
which  hung  down  her  back.  She  had  several  strings  of  differ- 
ent colored  beads  hanging  around  her  neck  and  rather  large, 
well-polished  brass  earrings  in  her  ears.  Her  features  were 
regular,  her  teeth  white  and  even.  She  stood  between  her 
mother  and  Grandmother  Antelope.  The  latter  occasionally, 
to  show  her  disapproval  of  what  she  thought  was  to  be  a 
real  marriage,  flourished  a  large,  new  butcher  knife  that 
Duval  had  given  her  and  which  she  would  have  been  glad  to 
use  in  taking  the  sinews  out  of  John's  body  should  she  get 
a  chance. 

Duval  had  scared  up  what  was  once  a  white  shirt  but  now 
the  color  of  chrome  yellow.  This,  with  some  clothes  loaned 
him  for  the  auspicious  occasion,  made  him  present  a  rather 
respectable  appearance.  He  was  somewhat  nervous  and  ex- 
cited, especially  when  old  Grandmother  Antelope  made  a 
lunge  at  his  yellow  shirt  bosom  with  her  big  knife,  hissing 
between  the  few  teeth  she  had  left  the  words  "Sichie!  Sichie! 
Sichie!"  I  finally  had  to  leave  John  to  go  to  Grandma  who 
was  getting  worked  up  to  fever  heat  as  the  time  to  perform 
the  ceremony  approached. 

At  last,  all  being  ready,  the  ceremony  proceeded.  The 
doctor  read  some  lines  from  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays, 
made  John  jump  several  times  backwards  and  forwards  over 
a  long  stick,  made  him  stand  on  his  head,  crawl  on  his  knees, 
walk  on  his  hands  and  feet,  bark  like  a  dog,  meow  like  a  cat, 
bawl  like  a  cow,  howl  like  a  wolf,  yell  like  an  Indian,  give 
the  war  whoop,  and  do  many  stunts  that  created  much  merri- 
ment, but  John  took  for  granted  it  was  all  a  part  of  the  cere- 
mony.    After  the  ceremony  came  the  marriage  feast,  which 


Trails  of  Yesterday  129 

all  relished,  except  the  whites  when  it  came  to  dog  soup  and 
dog  meat  which  the  Indians  present  enjoyed  very  much. 

The  feast  over,  John  insisted  on  sending  a  telegram  to  his 
old  "Massa  Duval"  in  Missouri,  stating  that  he  had  married 
Princess  Antelope  of  the  Oglala  Sioux  nation.  Puss  was 
anything  but  sad,  but  seemed  not  quite  as  happy  as  John. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  the  guests 
began  to  leave  the  ranch.  Puss  had  slipped  quietly  away 
without  saying  one  word  to  John,  who  became  very  sad.  He 
told  me  Puss  had  gone  and  wanted  to  know  what  he  should 


Grandma  Antelope  Becomes  Active 

do.  Someone  suggested  that  he  go  to  her  tepee  and  if  she 
decided  to  let  him  enter,  they,  her  folks,  would  soon  inform 
him.  John  wanted  to  know  if  that  old  grandma  did  not  live 
in  that  tepee.  We  told  him  she  did,  but  that  perhaps  she 
might  not  hurt  him  since  he  was  married  to  Puss.  It  was  a 
long  time  before  John  mustered  up  courage  to  raise  the  tepee 
lid.  When  he  did,  Grandma  Antelope  poked  her  head  out- 
side and  then  took  after  John  with  her  large  knife,  yelling  at 
the  top  of  her  voice  the  loudest  of  Indian  yells.  John  took  to 
the  prairie  as  fast  as  a  deer,  followed  by  the  old  Indian 
woman  and  a  bunch  of  barking  dogs.     Had  she  caught  him 


130  Trails  of  Yesterday 

there  certainly  would  have  been  one  colored  man  less.  He 
came  sneaking  up  a  draw  to  the  ranch  a  little  before  daylight, 
almost  scared  to  death.  He  never  had  the  courage  to  go  back 
to  the  tepee  to  claim  his  bride.  Neither  did  the  bride  Princess 
ever  try  to  claim  the  colored,  would-be  husband.  We  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  back  some  of  the  presents  but  not  all.  The 
last  seen  of  John  was  when  he  returned  to  the  Missouri  River 
with  a  freight  train  a  few  days  later,  a  "sadder  and  a  wiser 
man."  He  said  he  did  not  care  and  thought  he  was  lucky  not  to 
have  to  take  a  dog-eating  Sioux  Indian  squaw  for  a  wife,  and 
that  his  old  Master  Duval  would  have  discarded  him  had 
he  done  so. 

The  Sioux  at  this  time  did  not  take  kindly  to  the  negro. 
Any  captured  ones  were  made  to  do  all  the  hard,  dirty  work 
of  the  band  of  Indians  that  captured  them. 

It  was  while  here  at  Fort  Mitchell  that  I  spent  nearly 
six  months  without  seeing  a  white  woman.  I  had  nothing  to 
read  but  an  almanac  and  that  was  for  the  preceding  year. 
I  could  read  it  backwards  and  upside  down.  I  had  been 
riding  around  the  stock  one  day  when  I  was  told  that  a 
fourteen  wagon  mule  and  horse  train  had  passed  sometime 
that  morning  en  route  for  Montana  and  that  they  had  a  white 
woman  with  them.  I  determined  to  have  a  look  at  that  white 
woman.  Without  waiting  for  lunch  I  saddled  another  horse 
and  started  in  pursuit  of  that  emigrant  train  and  after  about 
a  seven-mile  ride  caught  up  with  it. 

I  rode  along  the  side  of  the  last  wagon,  and  the  driver, 
apparently  surprised  and  somewhat  excited  when  he  saw  me, 
stopped  his  team,  when  I  asked  him  if  they  had  a  white 
woman  in  their  train.  After  looking  me  over  and  sizing  me 
up,  he  answered  hesitatingly,  "We  have."  I  told  him  I 
meant  no  harm  nor  disrespect;  that  I  lived  at  the  Fort 
Mitchell  ranch  they  had  just  passed  and  that  it  had  been 
nearly  six  months  since  I  had  seen  a  white  woman  and  had 
come  to  take  a  look  at  her  to  see  what  my  mother  looked 
like.  Convinced  that  I  meant  no  harm  outside  of  gratifying 
an  idle  curiosity,  he  told  me  she  was  in  the  sixth  wagon  ahead. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  131 

As  I  passed  the  drivers  of  the  wagons  they  eyed  me  suspici- 
ously, but  when  I  hallooed  "Howdy"  they  let  me  pass 
although  I  think  some  of  them  grabbed  their  guns.  I  was 
armed  with  two  revolvers,  Sharp's  carbine,  bowie  knife  and 
carried  a  field  glass. 

Catching  up  with  the  driver  of  the  seventh  wagon,  an 
old  man  probably  sixty  years  of  age,  I  told  him  that  I  heard 
the  train  had  a  white  woman  in  it,  that  I  had  lived  several 
months  at  the  ranch  they  had  just  passed  and  had  not  seen 
one  and  if  he  had  no  objection,  if  she  was  his  wife,  I  should 
like  to  take  a  look  at  her  to  remind  me  of  what  my  mother 
looked  like.  He  commenced  to  laugh  and  called  back  in  the 
wagon,  "Ma,  here's  a  young  fellow  wants  to  see  you." 
"Ma"  crawled  up  toward  her  husband.  She  wore  a  sun- 
bonnet,  and  after  hearing  my  story,  threw  it  back  on  her  neck, 
revealing  her  gray  hair  and  a  very  kindly  face.  I  thought 
her  handsome  as  I  talked  with  her  and  her  husband  riding 
along  beside  their  team  a  couple  of  miles,  when  they  went 
into  camp  and  insisted  that  I  take  dinner  with  them.  I 
enjoyed  my  visit  with  these  people,  who  came  from  eastern 
Iowa. 

When  I  was  ready  to  leave  and  bade  them  good-bye,  a 
feeling  of  sadness  came  over  me  as  I  turned  my  horse's  head 
toward  the  Fort  Mitchell  ranch  with  its  responsibilities  and 
strenuous  life.    I  thought  of  home  and  the  loved  ones  there. 

It  was  not  many  days  after  this  that  two  bullwhackers 
came  to  the  ranch  one  night  and  requested  supper,  lodging 
and  breakfast.  They  had  walked  from  Fort  Laramie  with- 
out being  attacked  by  Indians.  They  had  due  bills  given 
them  for  service  by  some  freighter  they  had  worked  for  but 
had  no  money.  I  gave  them  supper,  lodging  and  breakfast 
and  told  them  they  could  stay  at  the  ranch  until  some  coach 
or  train  came  along,  but  they  declined,  saying  they  were 
anxious  to  get  to  the  Missouri  River.  I  told  them  they  were 
running  a  great  risk  and  were  liable  to  be  killed  or  captured 
by  Indians,  but  they  thought  not  and  would  risk  it.  Taking 
a  lunch  they  bade  me  good-bye   and   started  up   the   trail 


132  Trails  of  Yesterday 

toward  Scott's  Bluff  Gap.  Two  days  later  I  had  some 
business  to  transact  at  Brown's  ranch  about  fourteen  miles 
east  of  the  bluff  and  en  route  about  eight  miles  east  of  the 
bluffs  I  came  to  a  pack  of  wolves  feasting  on  the  dead  bodies 
of  these  two  men.  They  had  evidently  been  killed  by  Indians. 
They  had  been  scalped,  ears,  nose  and  other  members  of  the 
body  cut  off,  tongues  cut  out,  hearts  laid  bare  and  nearly 
every  bone  in  their  bodies  exposed — partly  by  the  wolves  and 
partly  by  Indians.  I  returned  to  the  ranch  and  went  back  the 
next  day  with  half  a  dozen  mounted  infantry.  We  gathered 
up  what  little  was  left  of  their  bodies,  placed  them  in  a 
blanket,  buried  them  in  a  hole  dug  by  the  side  of  the  trail  and 
drove  down  a  stake  to  mark  their  nameless  grave. 

These  two  men,  like  many  others,  took  desperate  chances 
and  paid  for  it  with  their  lives.  Many  venturesome  frontiers- 
men have  met  a  similar  fate.  The  loved  ones  at  home,  no 
doubt,  have  often  wondered  why  the  boys  did  not  write  or 
come  home.  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  told  them  had  I 
known  their  names,  but  there  was  nothing  left  to  identify 
them,  not  a  scrap  of  paper  nor  even  a  stitch  of  clothing  on 
their  mutilated  bodies.  Those  two  lives  were  wiped  out. 
They  were  only  a  short  link  in  the  chain  of  progress  and 
civilization  in  the  opening  and  development  of  our  great 
Western  Empire  with  its  billions  of  hidden  wealth.  Our 
downeast  friend  and  kind  philanthropist  thinks  the  Child  of 
the  Forest,  the  untutored  savage,  is  justified  in  these  acts  of 
cruelty  in  the  loss  of  country.    Banish  the  thought. 

Before  closing  this  already  long  chapter  I  cannot  pass 
unnoticed  a  very  comical  incident,  that  occurred  on  a  trip 
I  was  making  from  Fort  Mitchell  to  Fort  Laramie  between 
Stuttering  Brown,  proprietor  of  Brown's  ranch  located  be- 
tween Mitchell  and  Mud  Springs,  and  Stuttering  Bill  Smith, 
corral  boss  at  Fort  Laramie.  Both  had  killed  their  man, 
knew  no  fear  and  would  shoot  on  the  least  provocation. 

Brown  came  to  our  ranch  one  evening  intending  to  go  to 
Fort  Laramie  and  as  I  had  some  despatches  to  carry  to 
General  Palmer  at  that  Fort,  it  was  arranged  that  we  go 


Trails  of  Yesterday  133 

together,  starting  early  the  next  morning.  During  my  ride 
with  him  to  Reynolds'  ranch  we  became  well  acquainted.  He 
told  me  of  many  strange  things  that  had  occurred  during  his 
life,  some  of  which  were  of  no  credit  to  him  in  my  estimation. 
We  had  scarcely  dismounted  at  the  Reynolds'  ranch  before 
a  great,  big  fine-looking  man,  weighing  nearly  two  hundred 
pounds,  stepped  to  the  ranch  door,  walked  up  to  Brown, 
pushed  the  end  of  a  big  revolver  into  Brown's  mouth  and 
commenced  to  work  the  trigger.  I  expected  to  see  Brown's 
head  blown  to  pieces.  Brown  tried  to  talk  but  could  not, 
owing  to  the  end  of  Bill  Smith's  (such  being  the  name  of  the 
good-looking  man)  revolver  being  in  his  mouth.  Brown  kept 
backing  away  but  Smith  followed  him,  saying  loud  and 
earnestly:  "P-p-p-p-pa-pay  me  n-n-n-now."  Brown  tried  to 
pull  his  revolver  but  Smith  took  it  from  him.  I  appealed  to 
Smith  to  give  Brown  a  chance  to  explain  but  Smith  told  me 
not  to  "b-bu-butt"  in  or  he  would  "f-f-fix"  me,  too.  Brown 
did  the  only  thing  he  could  do — put  his  hand  down  in  his  pants' 
pocket  and  after  a  few  tugs,  pulled  out  a  large  roll  of  green- 
backs, probably  $1000.00,  pushed  it  into  Smith's  hands  and 
in  less  than  five  minutes  both  were  drinking  large  drinks  of 
Antone  Reynolds'  road  ranch  whiskey  out  of  the  same  tin 
cup.  Brown  finally  explained  to  Smith  that  he  had  come  up 
on  purpose  to  pay  him  this  money,  which  I  think  was  for 
mules  furnished  by  Smith  through  Brown  to  graders  on  the 
Union  Pacific  Railroad,  at  that  time  between  Columbus  and 
Grand  Island. 

I  parted  with  them,  leaving  them  the  best  of  friends. 
Smith  said  he  would  join  me  on  my  trip  to  Fort  Laramie  if  I 
would  wait  until  morning,  but  I  could  not  wait. 

Smith  had  come  down  to  Reynolds'  ranch  for  a  double 
purpose.  One  may  have  been  to  pay  Brown  the  money  due 
him  for  mules  but  another,  and  principal  object,  was  to  make 
love  to  Antone  Reynolds'  half-breed  daughter,  a  very  comely 
Indian  girl,  whom  he  afterwards  married.  Both  Smith  and 
Brown  later  died  with  their  boots  on,  the  latter  at  Cheyenne 
and  the  former  near  Elk  Mountain. 


134  Trails  of  Yesterday 

I  could  recite  many  other  incidents  of  interest  to  the 
reader  that  transpired  while  at  this  noted  road  ranch  and 
stage  station,  but  time  and  space  forbid. 

Shortly  after  making  this  trip,  when  I  had  almost  given 
up  all  hope  of  being  relieved,  I  received  a  telegram  from  Mr. 
Carter,  sent  from  Mud  Springs,  stating  that  he  was  on  his 
way  to  Fort  Mitchell  and  expected  to  arrive  on  the  first  coach. 
He  arrived  the  next  day.  Of  course,  I  had  much  news  to  tell 
him,  especially  about  Hunter  and  how  he  had  offered  me 
$3000.00  to  turn  the  ranch  over  to  him,  his  strategy  in  getting 
Sibson  away  and  of  my  efforts  in  helping  Hunter  to  get  his 
money  back,  which  had  probably  been  the  means  of  saving 
the  ranch  and  my  own  life.  Mr.  Carter  kept  me  awake  the 
greater  part  of  the  night,  asking  questions  about  matters 
connected  with  the  ranch.  I  had  kept  a  strict  account  of  all 
money  I  had  taken  in  and  of  stock  bought  and  sold,  which 
Mr.  Carter  checked  up  and  finding  everything  correct  was 
loud  in  his  praises  for  the  showing  I  made.  Even  John 
Hunter  said  many  good  words  about  me  to  Mr.  Carter. 

The  two  finally  agreed  on  the  sale  and  purchase  of  the 
ranch,  stock  and  goods,  and  in  less  than  a  week  I  bade  my 
friend  Hunter  and  others  at  the  ranch  and  fort,  good-bye, 
and  under  instructions  from  Mr.  Carter,  who  went  on  to  Fort 
Laramie,  I  started  across  the  country,  headed  for  Pine  Bluffs, 
riding  the  Bob  Mason  thoroughbred  mare  and  leading  a 
pack  horse,  on  which  I  had  all  my  belongings.  I  was  carrying 
a  letter  from  Mr.  Carter  to  Mr.  Sinclair,  manager  of 
Gilman  &  Carter's  tie  and  wood  camp  at  that  point,  which  the 
Union  Pacific  Railroad  had  passed  with  its  track-laying  gangs. 

It  took  me  two  days  to  make  the  trip  of  about  seventy- 
five  miles  from  Fort  Mitchell  to  Pine  Bluffs.  It  was  a  lone- 
some ride  and  rather  a  long,  lonesome  night.  I  saw  no 
Indians,  but  some  fresh  tracks.  I  also  saw  a  few  buffalo,  elk, 
deer,  one  lone  bear,  and  quite  a  few  wolves  and  coyotes.  I 
was  not  sorry  when  I  crossed  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad  track 
at  Pine  Bluffs  station  (consisting  of  a  box  car),  about  the 
middle  of  September,  1867. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  135 

Few  men  as  young  as  I,  being  only  in  my  twenty-fifth  year, 
had  ever  gone  through  the  severe,  soul-trying  experiences  that 
I  had  while  at  Fort  Mitchell.  They  were  bad  enough  at 
times  to  make  a  devil  out  of  an  angel.  It  took  courage  to  do 
right.  I  think  I  was  justified  in  my  treatment  of  Sergeant  H. 
It  was  the  means  of  recovering  Hunter's  money  and  the  just 
punishment  of  Sergeant  H.  for  his  crime. 

I  will  leave  the  verdict  to  my  readers. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Arrival  at  Pine  Bluffs — In  Charge  of  a  Store — Whiskey  and  Pets 

Must  Go — Bibles  Placed  in  Camp — Caught  Cribbing — 

A   Memorable  Night — Gold  Dust  in  a   Well — 

More  Indian  Excitement 

1  REPORTED  to  Mr.  Sinclair,  manager  of  the  tie  and 
wood  camp,  but  that  gentleman  did  not  give  me  a  cordial 
welcome.  I  found  there  were  two  bitter  factions  in  the 
camp — one  representing  Gilman  Bros.,  the  other  Coe  & 
Carter.  Mr.  Sinclair  belonged  to  the  former  faction,  hence 
had  no  use  for  me,  coming  as  I  did  from  the  service  of  Coe 
&  Carter,  even  though  carrying  a  letter  of  introduction  from 
Mr.  Carter,  who  suggested  that  I  assist  in  the  camp  store. 
Mr.  Sinclair  said  he  did  not  need  any  one.  I  told  him  I 
preferred  outside  work,  teaming  or  anything  to  make  myself 
useful.  So  I  was  given  a  six-yoke  ox-team  and  put  under  E. 
C.  Miller  who  had  seen  service  with  me  at  Fort  Phil  Kearny. 
He  was  wagon  boss  of  about  twenty  six-yoke  ox-teams,  part 
of  those  we  had  at  Phil  Kearny.  We  made  a  trip  a  day, 
five  to  seven  miles,  hauling  wood  or  ties  from  the  timber  to 
the  station.  The  company  had  about  thirty  four-mule  and 
horse  teams.  These  would  haul  ties  and  wood  from  two  to 
four  miles  farther  in  the  timber  than  the  ox-teams.  There 
was  a  large  force  of  tie  and  wood  choppers  at  work  keeping 
the  teams  supplied.  Many  were  French  Canadians  and  all 
made  big  money  at  this  work. 

After  being  here  about  a  month  a  telegram  was  received 
from  General  Coe  at  Fort  Sanders,  requesting  that  eight  five- 
yoke  teams,  the  culls  of  the  cattle  outfit,  be  loaded  with  corn 
and  sent  as  soon  as  possible  to  Fort  Sanders  under  my  charge. 
I  was  soon  on  the  road  with  this  cull  outfit  of  eighty  head 
of  very  undesirable  work  steers,  some  setters,  wild,  lame  and 
footsore  that  I  had  to  shoe  before  reaching  Cheyenne.  I 
also  had  eight  of  the  oldest  wagons,  yokes,  bows,  chains  and 

136 


Trails  of  Yesterday  137 

wagon  sheets,  and  nine  of  the  worst,  disreputable  bull- 
whackers  in  the  Pine  Bluffs  camps,  including  one  extra  to  act 
as  night  herder.  To  get  along  with  these  men,  all  older  than 
I,  and  get  this  cull  outfit  over  the  Sherman  Hill  was  no  picnic. 
I  had  several  breakdowns  but  finally  arrived  at  the  Fort 
Sanders  camp  about  two  and  one-half  miles  northeast  of 
Laramie  City,  which  was  just  in  its  infancy. 

At  this  Fort  Sanders  camp,  located  about  a  mile  north- 
east of  the  fort,  I  first  met  General  Isaac  Coe,  Mr.  Carter's 
partner.  He  asked  me  many  questions  about  Fort  Phil 
Kearny  and  Fort  Mitchell.  Mr.  Carter  had  evidently  kept 
him  fully  advised.  He  also  questioned  me  closely  about  the 
John  Hunter  matter  at  Mitchell,  more  than  once  commending 
my  action  in  dealing  with  him  and  thanked  me  for  guarding 
Coe  &  Carter's  interests,  saying  he  would  try  to  show  his 
appreciation  of  the  service  I  had  rendered. 

He  told  me  he  had  sent  for  these  eight  ox-teams  with  a 
view  to  selling  them  to  parties  who  wished  to  pay  for  them  by 
getting  out  three  thousand  cords  of  wood  on  a  contract  Gil- 
man  &  Carter  had  taken  to  deliver  at  Fort  Sanders,  and  by 
filling  a  large  tie  contract  which  the  same  company  had  taken 
from  Credit  Mobilier,  a  sub-company  of  the  Union  Pacific 
Railroad  Co.  Dr.  Durant  was  president  of  the  Credit  Mobi- 
lier at  this  time. 

After  unloading  the  eight  loads  of  corn  at  Fort  Sanders, 
the  General  instructed  me  to  take  off  the  wagon  boxes, 
lengthen  out  the  reaches  and  prepare  to  start  for  eight  large 
loads  of  dead  wood  the  next  morning.  He  was  anxious  to 
show  the  would-be  buyers  of  these  eight  teams  just  what 
could  be  done.  It  was  about  eight  miles  to  this  dead  quaking 
asp  wood,  which  lay  piled  in  every  conceivable  shape,  three 
to  seven  feet  deep.  We  camped  for  the  night  on  the  edge  of 
this  timber  and  had  no  trouble  in  loading  our  wagons  that 
evening,  thus  giving  us  an  early  start  next  morning.  We 
arrived  safely  with  our  load  at  the  fort  before  noon.  This 
trip  was  the  means  of  selling  this  cull  outfit  at  a  good  figure 
and  ridding  the  firm  of  Gilman  &  Carter  of  several  unde- 


138  Trails  of  Yesterday 

sirable  bullwhackers,  who  were  offered  good  wages  to  remain 
with  it. 

Relieved  of  my  position,  General  Coe  requested  me  to 
accept  a  clerkship  in  the  camp  store  but  I  declined.  I  had 
found  on  arrival  at  the  Fort  Sanders  camp  the  same  old  feud 
among  employees  that  existed  at  the  Pine  Bluffs  camp.  In 
addition  to  this  General  Coe's  selection  of  the  writer  to  bring 
up  the  eight-team  cull  outfit  from  the  Pine  Bluffs  camp  had 
created  some  jealousy  among  old  wagon  bosses.  The  Gilman 
Brothers  older  wagon  bosses  and  assistants  did  not  like  it 
and  showed  their  spleen  at  every  opportunity.  I  was  classed 
as  a  Coe  &  Carter  "pet"  by  the  Gilman  Brothers  "pets."  The 
latter  usually  did  what  they  pleased  without  regard  to  results. 
I  had  been  approached  and  questioned  as  to  what  part  of  the 
firm  I  was  working  for  and  had  told  them  for  Gilman  & 
Carter,  which  was  the  abbreviated  name  of  the  company.  I 
frankly  told  General  Coe  that  the  work  at  this  camp  would 
not  proceed  harmoniously  or  with  profit  until  both  he  and 
John  Gilman  got  rid  of  their  respective  pets  and  that  since  I 
was  classed  as  a  Coe  &  Carter  man  I  should  be  allowed  to 
go  with  others.  But  the  General  would  not  listen  to  this  and 
insisted  on  my  going  in  and  taking  charge  of  the  store.  I 
told  him  I  might  consent  to  take  charge  of  it  on  certain  con- 
ditions; one,  that  the  request  must  come  from  Mr.  Gilman; 
the  other,  that  every  drop  of  liquor  must  go  out  of  the  store. 
The  General  thought  he  had  something  to  say  as  well  as 
Mr.  Gilman  about  who  should  manage  the  store.  The 
whiskey  part  of  it  I  could  manage  as  I  pleased,  but  he  asked 
what  I  would  do  with  the  old  wagon  bosses  and  assistants  who 
came  in  every  morning  and  drank  a  tin  cupful  of  whiskey 
before  sitting  down  to  breakfast.  I  answered  that  they  would 
sit  down  to  breakfast  without  any  store  whiskey  if  I  ran  it. 

I  hardly  knew  Mr.  Gilman  but  he  said  he  knew  me  and 
one  day  asked  if  I  was  the  John  Bratt  who  was  at  Fort 
Mitchell  at  the  time  Gilman  &  Kountz's  mules  were  run  off 
by  the  Indians.  I  told  him  I  was.  He  said  he  had  heard 
of  the  service  rendered  by  me  in  loaning  his  men  all  our 


Trails  of  Yesterday  139 

horses  and  mules  and  accompanying  the  mule  skinners  across 
the  North  Platte  River  in  an  effort  to  recover  the  stock,  from 
the  Indians.  General  Coe  must  have  mentioned  this  and 
other  incidents  of  my  doings  at  Fort  Mitchell,  judging  from 
the  intelligent  way  in  which  he  talked  of  matters  that  occurred 
there. 

The  Pine  Bluffs  tie  and  wood  camp  was  closed  shortly 
after  I  left  and  everything  was  transferred  to  the  Fort 
Sanders  camp  and  later  to  a  camp  two  and  one-half  miles 
north  of  Sherman  Station  and  known  as  Sherman  Station 
camp.  Other  ox,  mule  and  horse  teams  had  been  purchased 
and  the  work  of  getting  out  ties  and  wood  and  telegraph 
poles  was  started  in  earnest.  We  had  several  hundred  men 
at  work  getting  out  these  ties,  wood,  logs  and  poles.  I  was 
given  charge  of  an  ox-train  hauling  ties  to  the  siding  near 
Fort  Sanders  and  was  doing  what  I  thought  good  work.  One 
morning,  on  starting  out,  Mr.  Gilman  handed  me  a  gallon 
keg,  telling  me  to  sling  it  on  the  end  of  the  reach  of  the  lead 
wagon.  Later  becoming  thirsty  and  thinking  the  keg  con- 
tained water,  I  took  a  good  swallow  out  of  it  before  discover- 
ing it  was  whiskey.  Mr.  Gilman  joined  me  before  we  got  to 
the  timber.  I  told  him  I  had  taken  a  drink  out  of  his  water 
keg  and  that  it  nearly  choked  me.  It  amused  him  greatly 
to  think  that  a  drink  of  whiskey  would  upset  anyone.  He 
said  he  usually  took  about  twenty  drinks  a  day  and  several  in 
the  night.  His  face  looked  like  it,  red,  blotched  and  bloated. 
I  told  him  I  had  had  my  last  drink  of  whiskey  at  old  Fort 
Reno,  nearly  a  quart,  and  that  poured  down  my  throat.  He 
said  that  was  not  the  way  to  drink  it,  to  which  I  agreed.  He 
became  talkative,  especially  after  he  had  taken  a  big  drink 
from  the  keg. 

He  requested  me  to  tell  him  the  facts  in  regard  to 
the  Indians  running  off  one  hundred  twenty-eight  head  of  his 
and  Mr.  Kountz's  mules  at  Fort  Mitchell.  This  I  did  and 
told  also  of  our  efforts  to  recover  them,  how  we  loaned  his 
wagon  bosses,  assistants  and  mule  skinners  our  herd  of  ranch 
horses  and  mules,  and  how  in  the  chase  I  rode  a  barebacked 


140  Trails  of  Yesterday 

mule  that  nearly  drowned  me  while  crossing  the  North  Platte 
River.  He  asked  me  many  questions,  riding  by  my  side  on 
our  return  trip  with  our  loads.  Mr.  Gilman  treated  me  very 
kindly  and  finally  asked  me  whether  I  would  not  like  to 
take  charge  of  the  camp  store.  He  said  it  would  be  easier 
work  than  what  I  was  doing  and  more  money  in  it.  I  told 
him  I  preferred  the  work  I  was  doing,  provided  I  was  giving 
satisfaction.  He  said  my  work  was  satisfactory  but  that  he 
thought  I  could  do  good  work  for  them  in  the  store  and 
wished  I  would  take  that  position.  Mr.  Sinclair  had  come 
up  from  Pine  Bluffs  and  had  full  charge  of  the  store  at  this 
time  but  Mr.  Gilman  said  the  Company  was  about  to  open  a 
tie  camp  at  Rock  Creek  and  needed  Mr.  Sinclair  there.  I  told 
him  my  method  of  running  a  camp  would  be  different  from 
Mr.  Sinclair's  and  that  it  might  not  suit  him,  that  all  old  pets, 
both  his  and  Coe  &  Carter's,  would  have  to  go,  also  that 
the  store  must  be  rid  of  every  drop  of  liquor. 

He  stared  at  me  a  moment  and  asked  why,  and  I 
frankly  told  him  that  these  old  men  had  been  with  the  two 
outfits  so  long  and  so  much  jealousy  existed  among  them, 
that  the  Company's  interests  were  suffering  and  no  camp 
could  be  run  in  this  way  on  business  principles.  Bosses  and 
their  favorite  teamsters  could  go  to  the  store  any  hour  of 
the  day  and  night  and  help  themselves  to  a  tin  cupful  of 
whiskey,  even  without  paying  anything  for  it.  Mr.  Gilman 
remarked  that  I  was  demanding  a  great  deal  but  believed  I 
was  right  and  if  I  would,  I  could  try  it.  I  am  satisfied  that 
he  thought  I  could  not  carry  out  the  plan.  No  one  knew  the 
men  I  had  to  deal  with  better  than  I.  Some  of  them  had 
killed  their  man  and  looked  upon  me  as  a  kid. 

Not  wishing  to  force  myself  I  took  a  few  days  to  decide 
whether  I  should  take  the  position  or  not.  Both  General  Coe 
and  Mr.  Gilman  came  to  me  again  and  I  finally  consented  to 
try  it.  Some  of  the  old  "soak"  wagon  bosses  had  heard  that 
I  was  to  take  charge  of  the  store  and  that  I  intended  to 
abolish  the  whiskey  part  of  it  and  had  warned  me  that  I  had 


Trails  of  Yesterday  141 

better  not  do  that  or  I  might  follow  the  whiskey,  which  they 
had  heard  I  was  going  to  empty  on  the  prairie,  so  I  had 
notice  of  what  I  was  going  to  be  up  against. 

I  never  saw  a  worse  managed  store.  The  stock  consisted 
of  groceries,  clothing,  blankets,  boots,  shoes,  and  everything 
necessary  at  a  wood  and  tie  camp,  including  some  seven  or 
eight  barrels  of  whiskey — a  place  for  nothing  and  nothing  in 
its  place.  Sacks  of  greasy  bacon  were  piled  on  stacks  of 
clothing — no  cost  mark  on  anything — all  valued  at  probably 
$25,000.00.  Mr.  Sinclair  was  still  manager  of  the  store  but 
left  soon  after  I  took  charge  to  open  a  tie  camp  at  Medicine 
Bow  or  Rock  Creek. 

One  day  I  called  Mr.  Gilman's  attention  to  the  whiskey 
and  asked  him  what  I  should  do  with  it.  He  said,  "Roll  the 
barrels  out  and  knock  the  heads  in  but  save  a  five-gallon  keg 
for  me."  I  never  saw  him  drunk  but  I  have  seen  him  take 
twenty  big  drinks  of  whiskey  a  day  and  get  up  several  times 
in  the  night  to  take  some.    He  said  it  made  him  sleep  better. 

The  next  day  I  had  a  four-mule  team  brought  to  the 
store  door  and  loaded  all  the  barrels  of  whiskey  we  had, 
reserving  the  five-gallon  keg  as  requested  by  Mr.  Gilman. 
and  went  with  the  driver  to  Wanlen  Brothers'  sutler  store  at 
Fort  Sanders,  where  I  sold  it. 

While  clerking  at  this  store  I  met  and  became  acquainted 
with  Joseph  Michael,  who  later  became  county  clerk  of 
Lincoln  County,  Nebraska.  His  estimable  and  respected 
wife,  later  known  as  Mrs.  Neary,  resided  in  North  Platte 
until  the  time  of  her  death. 

Though  not  unexpected,  it  would  make  very  interesting 
reading  had  all  the  comments  on  my  act  and  the  many  cur- 
sings I  received  from  the  old  wagon  bosses,  assistants  and 
some  of  our  employees  been  written.  All  threatened  ven- 
geance on  me  for  thus  depriving  them  of  their  liquor.  Some 
appealed  to  Mr.  Gilman  and  General  Coe,  who  frankly  told 
them  it  was  my  doings,  not  theirs;  that  I  was  running  the 
camp. 


142  Trails  of  Yesterday 

It  was  not  long  before  General  Coe  had  some  Coe  & 
Carter  pets  en  route  for  Texas  to  assist  him  in  bringing  up 
a  herd  of  cattle.  It  was  proposed  to  buy  the  cattle  north  of 
San  Antonio.  The  General  insisted  that  I  take  a  certain  in- 
terest in  this  and  offered  to  finance  it  for  what  share  I  wanted 
to  the  extent  of  one-fifth,  I  to  take  charge  of  the  books  and 
inside  work.  I  saw  there  was  big  money  in  the  venture 
provided  the  cattle  could  be  brought  safely  through  the  In- 
dian Territory.  The  largest  kind  of  four  and  six  year  old 
cattle  could  be  purchased  for  $5.00  in  gold  and  on  arrival 
on  the  Laramie  Plains  could  be  sold  for  $35.00  to  $40.00 
each  if  in  fair  flesh.  The  General  planned  that,  while  he  and 
his  pets,  Bob  Mason,  John  Knox  and  Matt  Brooks,  were 
gone  for  the  cattle,  I  should  locate  a  range  and  build  a  ranch, 
corral,  etc.,  on  one  of  the  Laramie  rivers,  take  up  several 
hay  claims,  have  the  hay  put  up  and  everything  ready  as  soon 
as  the  cattle  arrived.  I  promised  to  do  this  or  have  it  done 
but  I  would  not  consent  to  take  any  interest  in  the  enterprise 
if  the  men  with  whom  he  had  started  to  Texas  were  to  be 
taken  into  the  deal.  The  General  felt  rather  put  out  at  this 
decision  on  my  part.  He  thought  I  was  needlessly  prej- 
udiced against  the  three.  He  said  they  had  been  with  Coe 
&  Carter  many  years  and  he  had  always  found  them  to  be 
good,  straight  men.  On  bidding  him  good-bye  he  said  I  must 
reconsider  my  decision  as  he  would  like  to  have  me  take  an 
interest  in  the  deal.  I  told  him  I  had  made  up  my  mind  but 
that  would  not  prevent  me  from  locating  the  ranch  and  having 
everything  ready  for  the  herd  when  it  arrived. 

John  Gilman  made  good  his  promise  and  sent  away  on 
other  work  several  of  his  pets — Gladdon,  Hugh  Alley,  Sharp, 
Rowland,  and  others,  so  that  in  the  course  of  two  months  I 
had  the  camp  of  some  six  hundred  men  working  smoothly  and 
every  man  working  for  the  best  interest  of  the  company. 
Mr.  Gilman  spent  some  time  at  the  camp  but  more  down  at 
Laramie  City,  which  had  suddenly  grown  to  many  hundred 
people.     Some  of  the  buildings  were  of  frame,  some  covered 


Trails  of  Yesterday  143 

with  canvas,  some  adobes,  a  few  stores,  the  majority  being 
saloons,  dance  halls  and  gambling  places,  all  in  full  blast. 

One  day  good  Mrs.  Iverson  came  to  our  camp  from 
Laramie  City,  where  her  husband  kept  a  general  store,  and 
asked  whether  I  would  distribute  a  boxful  of  Bibles  if  she  sent 
them  up.  I  told  her  I  would  be  glad  to  accept  and  distribute 
them.  The  Bibles  came  and  I  handed  one  to  every  employee 
and  to  many  others  who  came  to  our  camp.  No  one  can 
tell  the  good  this  act  did.  God  bless  her!  I  saw  some  of 
these  men  years  afterwards  and  they  told  me  they  still  had 
their  Bibles  and  prized  them  very  much. 

I  always  tried  to  impress  upon  the  minds  of  the  men  the 
evil  effects  of  drinking,  gambling  and  immorality.  About  this 
time  I  remember  Mr.  Gilman  took  a  liking  to  an  ex-lieutenant 
who  had  just  received  his  discharge  at  Fort  Sanders  and  en- 
gaged him  to  assist  me  in  outside  work  in  the  purchase  and 
receiving  of  ties  and  wood.  One  day  I  gave  him,  at  Mr. 
Gilman's  request,  $1500.00  to  pay  down  on  several  thousand 
ties  that  were  offered  for  sale  by  a  gang  of  tie  choppers.  In 
less  than  two  hours  afterwards  one  of  our  men  reported  to 
me  that  this  gentleman  was  busy  in  a  poker  game  in  one  of 
the  gambling  houses  in  Laramie  City.  In  half  an  hour  I  was 
at  his  side  and  by  persuasion  and  threats  I  secured  a  little 
over  $1300.00, — all  he  had  left.  The  result  was  that  we 
parted  with  him  very  quickly. 

Later,  General  Coe  said  he  had  a  very  good  man,  an 
intelligent  old  wagon  master  living  at  Nebraska  City,  whom 
he  said  was  just  the  man  we  wanted.  He  came  and  within 
sixty  days  I  discovered  him  steering  our  unsuspecting  em- 
ployees to  a  house  of  bad  repute  in  Laramie  City  and  dividing 
profits  with  the  landlady.  This  smooth,  pious-looking  gentle- 
man followed  the  lieutenant. 

My  duties  were  many  and  exacting.  After  a  hard  day's 
ride  inspecting  and  receiving  ties  in  the  timber  I  would  return 
to  the  store  and  post  the  blotter  kept  by  one  and  sometimes 
two  clerks.     It  was  no  uncommon  thing  to  find  me  at  two  or 


144  Trails  of  Yesterday 

three  o'clock  in  the  morning  posting  the  ledger  or  going  over 
the  previous  day's  business  by  the  light  of  a  rag  laid  in  a  tin 
plate  of  grease.  Candles  at  this  time  were  a  luxury  and  coal 
oil  lamps  had  not  reached  us.  This  night  work  under  such 
conditions  began  to  affect  my  eyes  and  I  had  to  discontinue  it. 

We  had  all  classes  of  men  among  our  several  hundred 
employees,  some  that  had  fled  from  the  States  and  were 
using  fictitious  names  to  hide  their  identity.  It  was  no  easy 
matter  to  get  along  with  such  men. 

We  paid  thirty-five  to  sixty  cents  each  for  ties  in  the 
timber  and  received  from  the  Credit  Mobilier  $1.00  to  $1.30 
each,  delivered  on  railroad  track  near  Fort  Sanders,  Sherman 
Station,  Tie  Siding,  etc.,  and  at  these  points  we  received  from 
$12.00  to  $16.00  per  cord  for  wood,  which  cost  us  $6.00  to 
$8.00  per  cord  delivered.  This  looks  like  a  good  profit  but 
not  enough  when  we  consider  the  great  risk  of  fire,  theft  and 
an  occasional  raid  on  our  live  stock  by  marauding  bands  of 
Ute  and  Sioux  Indians.  At  one  time  we  had  thirty  thousand 
cords  of  wood  ricked  up  at  Sherman  Station  with  a  bad  fire 
in  it.  Joseph  Millard,  the  Omaha  banker,  had  an  interest 
in  this  until  he  heard  of  the  fire  and  wisely  sold  his  interest  to 
other  partners,  sustaining  but  little  loss.  We  would  let  many 
sub-contracts  for  cord  wood,  ties,  poles,  etc.,  delivered  at  Fort 
Sanders,  Tie  Siding,  Sherman  Station,  and  other  points  on 
the  line  of  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad. 

I  am  reminded  of  one  500-cord  contract  let  to  an  ap- 
parently good,  straight  fellow,  to  be  put  in  on  a  contract  of 
three  thousand  cords  for  the  Government  at  Fort  Sanders. 
The  same  was  to  be  four  feet  long  and  piled  in  ricks  eight  feet 
high,  the  contractor  agreeing  to  accept  Government  measure. 
One  day  I  found  the  fellow  "cribbing"  and  remonstrated, 
telling  him  he  would  get  the  worst  of  that  trick,  as  such 
dishonesty  would  not  only  injure  him,  if  discovered,  but  would 
reflect  on  our  honesty.  He  said  he  would  quit  it.  His  con- 
tract finished,  I  called  on  the  Quartermaster  to  measure  it. 

The  Quartermaster  was  a  young  lieutenant,  recently  from 
West  Point,  and  no  doubt  wanted  to  make  a  record  of  his 


Trails  of  Yesterday  145 

thorough  business  ability.  He  had  his  tape  line  and  note  book 
carried  by  orderlies,  while  others  held  stakes  at  the  corners. 
He  walked  along  the  sides  of  the  eight-foot  ricks,  looked  in 
every  suspicious  hole,  measured  many  of  the  sticks  and  the 
length  and  height  of  the  outside  ricks,  then  with  the  aid  of 
orderlies  climbed  on  top  of  the  ricks,  on  which  he  started  to 
walk.  It  was  not  many  moments  before  he  fell  down  into 
the  wood,  evidently  where  it  had  been  cribbed.  I,  and 
several  orderlies,  were  quickly  doing  our  best  to  extricate 
him.  His  dress  parade  clothes  were  torn,  the  chains  attached 
from  belt  to  sword  broken  and  his  shoes  badly  scuffed;  no 
wonder  he  was  making  the  air  blue  with  yells  and  talk  that 
would  not  be  suitable  to  repeat  in  a  Sunday  school.  We 
pulled  him  out  and  got  him  on  terra  firma.  He  spied  the 
chopper  who  had  piled  up  the  wood  and  the  tongue  lashing 
he  gave  him  made  him  very  uncomfortable.  The  following 
day  he  called  out  a  company  of  soldiers  and  had  the  ricks  all 
torn  down  and  repiled  as  closely  as  possible.  This  sub-con- 
tractor acknowledged  that  I  had  cautioned  him  several  times 
not  to  crib.  He  learned  a  lesson  that  he  remembered  for  a 
long  time.  The  lieutenant  learned  that  the  sub-contractor 
was  to  accept  and  receive  pay  according  to  Quartermaster's 
measurement.  After  this  sub-contractor  received  the  lieu- 
tenant's measurement  he  quietly  acknowledged  to  me  that  he 
wished  he  had  not  done  it. 

I  shall  never  forget  Christmas  day  in  1867.  I  attempted 
to  cross  the  Laramie  river  with  six  four-mule  teams  loaded 
with  logs  to  be  used  in  building  the  ranch  and  corrals.  I  had 
decided  to  locate  near  a  station  on  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad, 
to  be  known  as  Wyoming.  We,  the  teamsters  and  I,  got  stuck 
in  the  ice  in  the  river.  We  froze  our  hands,  feet,  ears  and 
noses  very  badly.  This  ranch  was  the  second  cattle  ranch 
built  in  Wyoming,  Creighton  &  Hutton,  or  Alsop,  having 
built  the  first  to  care  for  Texas  cattle. 

Besides  managing  the  tie  and  wood  camp  near  Fort 
Sanders,  I  had  superintended  opening  another  tie  and  wood 
camp  at  Sherman  Station.     I  had  the  ranch  and  corrals  built 


146  Trails  of  Yesterday 

and  several  hundred  tons  of  hay  in  stack  when  the  three 
thousand  head  of  Texas  cattle,  mostly  steers,  arrived  and  Gen- 
eral Coe,  who  came  up  with  the  herd  in  person,  was  pleased 
with  what  I  had  done,  especially  with  the  selection  of  the 
location.  The  General  had  discharged  two  of  his  pets,  Knox 
and  Brooks,  at  the  crossing  of  the  Red  River.  Mason,  the 
man  I  disliked  the  most,  came  up  with  the  cattle  with  the 
General.  The  cattle  were  a  nice  bunch  in  fair  flesh,  had  been 
bought  right  and  trailed  up  without  great  loss  or  heavy  ex- 
pense. I  saw  big  profits  in  the  deal  and  had  it  not  been  for 
Bob  Mason's  having  an  interest  in  the  enterprise,  under  the 
General's  continued  persuasions,  I  might  have  taken  the 
interest  he  desired.  When  I  refused  to  do  so  he  seemed  to 
regret  it  very  much. 

A  slaughter  house  was  built  and  a  meat  market  opened 
in  Laramie  City  under  the  firm  name  of  Mason  &  Company, 
and  in  a  very  short  time  Bob  Mason  was  looked  upon  as  a 
great  man  in  Laramie  City.  Much  dressed  meat  was  shipped 
to  the  tie,  wood  and  grading  camps  along  the  Union  Pacific 
line.  Casement  Brothers  had  been  grading,  ironing  and  tie- 
ing  two  to  four  miles  a  day  and  the  iron  horse  was  pushing  its 
way  through  the  western  part  of  Wyoming  by  leaps  and 
bounds.  The  profits  in  supplying  these  camps  were  big.  The 
firm  of  Mason  &  Company  was  making  money  fast  out  of 
their  herd  of  cattle  and  had  planned  to  drive  up  other  herds 
the  next  year.  Mason  &  Company's  only  competitor  at  this 
time  was  Iliff  at  Cheyenne.  Bob  could  not  stand  the  pros- 
perity and  temptations;  fast  women,  drink  and  gambling  took 
him  off  his  feet  in  less  than  six  months.  L.  N.  Gallup  and  I 
were  appointed  receivers  to  close  out  the  firm  of  Mason  & 
Company.  We  sold  the  ranch  and  what  was  left  of  the  cattle 
to  Creighton  &  Hutton.  At  last  General  Coe  realized  that 
my  opinion  of  Mason  was  correct. 

One  day  in  June,  1868,  I  received  a  message  from  Mr. 
Carter  in  Omaha,  asking  at  what  price  per  ton  two  thousand 
tons  of  good  hay  could  be  delivered  in  stack  at  Fort  Sanders. 
Mr.  Carter  requested  a  quick  answer. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  147 

I  immediately  saddled  Mr.  Gilman's  private  horse,  a 
Kentucky  thoroughbred,  "Oak  Rail,"  put  a  lunch  in  my 
saddle  pocket  and  with  my  field  glasses,  compass,  revolvers, 
Winchester  carbine,  bowie  knife  and  a  belt  full  of  cartridges, 
was  soon  scouring  the  country  between  Sanders  and  the  Lara- 
mie River  and  south  of  there.  It  must  have  been  nearly  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  a  sudden  thunderstorm  sprang 
up.  It  was  accompanied  by  considerable  rain,  wind  and  hail. 
The  lightning  was  vivid  and  attracted  by  my  brass  Winchester 
gun,  it  once  knocked  my  horse  down  on  his  knees.  For  a 
time  I  thought  it  had  killed  him  but  he  gathered  himself  up 
and  went  on  but  not  before  I  had  taken  off  my  overcoat  and 
wrapped  it  around  my  gun,  when  I  started  again,  see-sawing 
across  the  valley.  Grass  was  plentiful  but  the  old,  long  grass 
predominated.  I  had  not  proceeded  far  before  a  flash  of  light- 
ning nearly  blinded  me  and  stunned  poor  "Oak  Rail,"  who 
trembled  all  over.  The  lightning  seemed  to  be  playing  up  and 
down  his  ears  and  head.  The  poor  horse  was  so  frightened 
from  the  shock  he  received  that  I  could  scarcely  get  him  out 
of  a  walk.  As  for  myself,  I  felt  dazed  and  the  smell  of 
sulphur  was  so  strong  that  it  made  me  sick.  The  storm  had 
increased  in  violence.  I  finally  dismounted,  wrapped  the 
Winchester  in  my  overcoat  and  laid  it  down  on  the  prairie, 
carefully  marking  the  location  and  taking  particular  note  of 
the  surrounding  country,  after  which  I  slowly  continued  my 
prospecting. 

It  was  getting  dark.  I  had  gone  probably  two  miles  from 
the  place  where  I  left  my  gun  and  overcoat.  I  had  satisfied 
myself  that  I  could  get  that  quantity  of  hay  within  fifteen 
miles  of  the  fort  and  decided  to  return  to  camp  via  the  route 
to  the  gun,  which  I  found  after  much  trouble.  By  this  time 
"Oak  Rail"  was  about  all  in.  He  breathed  with  difficulty. 
His  hide  was  wet,  not  so  much  from  the  rain,  which  had 
abated,  but  with  sweat.  He  staggered  more  or  less  every  step 
he  took.  After  finding  my  gun  and  overcoat  I  walked  and  led 
him  and  realized  that  I  was  elected  to  camp  with  him  that 
night   on    the   prairie.      This    I    did,    the   greater   part   of 


148  Trails  of  Yesterday 

the  night  surrounded  by  a  pack  of  glistening-eyed,  hungry 
wolves,  that  I  had  continually  to  scare  way.  Occasionally 
they  would  give  a  howl  that  made  me  feel  lonesome.  I  did 
not  want  to  shoot  at  them  for  this  would  locate  me  to  any 
Ute  or  other  Indians  that  might  be  camping  on  the  river. 
I  allowed  "Oak  Rail"  to  eat  what  grass  he  wanted  as  I  coaxed 
him  along  at  the  end  of  the  lariat.  My  clothes  were  wet  and 
I  was  chilled  with  cold. 

I  arrived  at  camp  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
having  made  up  my  mind  for  what  the  hay  contract  could 
be  filled.  As  soon  as  I  had  put  on  some  dry  clothes  I  went 
to  the  Fort  and  wired  Mr.  Carter  an  answer.  The  reader  can 
imagine  our  chagrin  on  opening  the  bids  when  Edward 
Creighton's  bid  was  found  to  be  three  cents  per  ton  less  than 
Mr.  Carter's.  This  Edward  Creighton,  of  the  firm  Creighton 
&  Hutton,  was  the  builder  of  the  telegraph  line.  So  much  for 
being  president  of  the  Overland  Telegraph  Company;  all 
messages  sent  and  received  passed  over  his  desk!  Could  I 
have  used  a  cipher  in  this  instance  we  might  have  secured  that 
hay  contract. 

At  this  time  it  was  a  common  thing  to  see  men  hung  and 
hanging  to  telegraph  poles  or  other  convenient  projections 
in  Laramie  City,  Tie  Siding,  Dale  Creek  City,  Sherman  Sta- 
tion and  Cheyenne.  Some  would  weaken  and  confess,  others 
die  game. 

After  opening  camps  at  Tie  Siding  and  Sherman  Station, 
I  often  had  to  go  to  Cheyenne  to  get  funds  to  pay  for  wood, 
ties  and  logs.  There  were  two  banks  at  Cheyenne  at  this 
time,  one  belonging  to  Posy  Wilson,  the  other  to  Harry 
Rogers.  I  would  usually  carry  back  on  my  person  $5000.00 
to  $10,000.00  in  greenbacks.  It  was  not  a  comfortable  feel- 
ing to  have  so  much  money  with  me  since  I  would  often  meet 
ex-employees  who  knew  that  I  always  carried  more  or  less 
money  with  me.  I  used  the  greatest  caution  in  not  exposing 
my  money  and  in  leaving  these  places  I  would  steal  quietly 
from  the  rear  of  the  barn  where  I  put  up  my  saddle  horse. 
Once  or  twice  when  I  knew  I  was  being  shadowed,  I  waited 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


149 


3$    iAV^ 


150  Trails  of  Yesterday 

until  dark  and  had  one  of  Ben  Gallagher's  clerks  ride  my 
horse  out  to  a  certain  point  where  I  would  mount  and  go  across 
country  to  camp.  With  all  this  caution,  one  night,  while  leav- 
ing the  city  by  a  back  street,  a  man  sprang  at  my  horse's  head 
and  grabbed  for  my  bridle  rein.  Another  time  some  one 
tried  to  lariat  me  and  pull  me  off  the  horse. 

To  show  how  easy  it  was  for  some  men  to  go  wrong — one 
nice,  clerical-looking  gentleman,  named  Leighton,  sent  out  by 
a  missionary  society  to  open  a  mission,  took  the  $600.00  given 
him  and  opened  a  dance  hall  in  Cheyenne.  He  said  he  could 
make  more  money  that  way. 

One  night  I  had  business  in  Cheyenne.  I  was  with  Mr. 
Bulen,  a  preacher,  and  old  Sam  Watts,  who  at  that  time  was 
clerking  for  Ben  Gallagher.  I  thought  I  was  in  the  best  of 
company.  It  was  proposed  to  go  in  McDaniel's  dance  house. 
I  hesitated  for  a  time  but  it  seemed  that  in  company  with 
two  such  reputable  citizens  I  had  nothing  to  fear.  Imagine 
my  surprise  when  Reverend  Bulen  insisted  on  setting  up  the 
drinks  for  Watts  and  me.  I  was  very  nearly  kicked  out  of 
the  hall  because  I  refused  to  drink  with  them  and  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  place.  Am  sorry  to  say  Bulen  got  so  badly  in  his 
"cups"  that  we  had  to  almost  carry  him  to  his  room.  He 
made  amends  for  this  by  preaching  a  good  sermon  to  the 
men  at  the  camp  the  following  Sunday,  the  subject  being 
"The  Evil  Effects  of  Strong  Drink." 

I  cannot  close  this  chapter  without  mentioning  a  joke  that 
John  Gilman  played  on  the  people  of  Laramie  City.  While 
the  men  who  were  engaged  in  digging  the  well  at  the  Union 
Pacific  hotel  were  at  dinner,  Mr.  Gilman  scattered  about 
$20.00  worth  of  gold  dust  in  the  well,  which  was  probably 
eighteen  to  twenty  feet  deep.  A  party  was  at  the  well  to  see 
the  first  bucket  come  up.  Noticing  the  free  gold,  a  pan  was 
promptly  secured  and  some  of  the  dirt  washed.  Surely  the 
gold  was  there !  The  news  spread  fast  and  in  almost  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  claims  were  staked  off  by  the  hun- 
dreds. The  result  was  that  one  man  was  killed  and  several 
wounded.     When  the  fact  became  known  that  Mr.  Gilman 


Trails  of  Yesterday  151 

had  salted  the  well,  it  came  very  nearly  going  hard  with  him, 
especially  on  account  of  the  man's  death.  It  cost  him  many 
dollars  for  drinks  and  cigars  and  the  price  of  a  coffin. 

While  the  Indians  were  neither  so  plentiful  nor  so  des- 
perate as  around  Fort  Phil  Kearny,  yet  an  occasional  band 
of  Sioux  and  Utes  would  raid  us,  drive  off  some  of  our  stock 
and  run  in  our  tie  and  wood  choppers  working  in  the  fringe  of 
the  timber  near  old  Fort  Walbeck.  Gold  had  been  discovered 
in  North  and  South  Parks.  Mr.  Gilman  had  filed  on  several 
mining  claims.  I  took  one  and  hired  the  Shipmans,  father 
and  son,  to  work  it  for  me.  Unfortunately,  the  Ute  Indians 
discovered  this  little  mining  camp  of  about  twenty  men, 
surrounded  it,  and  the  miners  who  did  not  escape  in  the  night 
were  hemmed  in,  starved  out  and  later  killed.  The  Ship- 
mans  and  some  others  had  sold  their  lives  as  dearly  as  pos- 
sible. When  we  found  them  all  were  dead  and  badly  mu- 
tilated. The  Shipmans  had  even  boiled  their  shoes,  shoe 
strings  and  buckskin  shirts  and  had  lived  on  the  soup  as  long 
as  they  could.  As  soon  as  we  heard  that  the  Indians  had 
surrounded  the  miners,  we  sent  out  troops  but  they  arrived 
too  late.  This  massacre  made  us  all  very  sad.  We  gathered 
up  all  the  remains  we  could  find  and  properly  interred  them 
in  the  Parks,  with  suitable  head  boards  on  the  graves.  Could 
I  have  found  the  home  or  any  kindred  of  the  Shipmans  I 
would  have  sent  the  remains  there,  but  I  could  not. 

While  hauling  ties  and  wood  at  our  Fort  Sanders  camp 
on  the  Laramie  plains  some  of  our  work  cattle  died  from 
eating  loco  weed,  which  is  usually  the  first  green  forage  to 
appear  in  the  spring.  It  comes  ahead  of  the  grass.  One 
day  our  bull  wagon  boss  turned  his  work  cattle  into  a  thick 
patch  of  loco  and  about  two  hundred  head  became  affected 
It  took  quick  work  with  butcher  knives  that  we  stuck  near 
their  paunches  to  save  them.  This  was  done  to  relieve  them 
of  the  gas  that  formed  in  them.  Some  very  bad  cases  we 
drenched  with  hard  oil  and  gunpowder  and  sometimes  with 
a  strong  dose  of  warm  epsom  salts.  As  a  rule,  cattle  will  not 
eat  loco  unless  hungry.     Some  animals,  especially  horses,  act 


152  Trails  of  Yesterday 

crazy  after  eating  it,  so  if  a  horse  or  individual  acts  peculiarly 
it  is  a  common  saying  that  he  is  "locoed." 

Game  and  fish  were  abundant,  so  our  hunters,  who  were 
paid  to  supply  the  camp  with  fresh  meats,  had  no  trouble  in 
bringing  in  deer,  antelope,  elk,  buffalo  and  bear  meat  when 
needed.  It  was  reported  that  General  Coe  (who  won  his 
military  title  by  being  appointed  General  of  the  First  Regi- 
ment of  Nebraska  Volunteers  at  the  time  the  Civil  War  broke 
out) ,  in  describing  our  tie  and  wood  camp  near  Fort  Sanders, 
said  that  in  case  a  gun  was  discharged  by  accident,  there  would 
lay  a  dead  antelope,  and  if  any  one  went  to  the  creek  for  a 
bucket  of  water,  he  would  get  a  bucket  of  fish.  Who  can 
blame  the  Indian  for  not  wanting  to  leave  such  ideal  hunting 
grounds,  even  if  the  winters  were  intensely  cold  at  times? 
It  was  such  a  dry  cold  that  its  intensity  was  not  felt.  The 
air  was  so  light  that  we  would  often  freeze  before  knowing  it. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Sherman  Station — Tie  and  Wood  Camp — Mr.  Nuckoll's  First  and 

Last  Lawsuit — Lost  in  a  Blizzard — Too  Quick  for  the 

Mexican — Honest  Mr.  Carter 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  June,  1868,  our  firm  opened  a  new 
tie  and  wood  camp  about  two  and  one-half  miles  north 
of  Sherman  Station  and  I  was  placed  in  charge.  Here 
we  got  out  and  delivered  on  the  line  of  the  Union  Pacific 
Railroad  at  this  station  and  at  Tie  Siding  several  hundred 
thousand  ties  and  probably  one  hundred  thousand  cords  of 
wood.  Later  we  established  tie  and  wood  choppers  in  the 
timber  south  of  Tie  Siding. 

In  riding  over  the  country  north  of  Tie  Siding  and  Sher- 
man Station  I  often  wondered  why  the  Union  Pacific  did 
not  follow  up  the  North  Platte  River  valley  and  thus  have  a 
river  grade  instead  of  climbing  the  Sherman  Hill,  and  I  often 
said  this  would  be  done  some  day.  It  is  being  done  at  the  time 
I  am  preparing  this  autobiography.  The  Union  Pacific  Rail- 
road Company  has  started  to  build  a  river  grade  line  from 
O'Fallons  west.  This  may  connect  with  the  old  line  at  Medi- 
cine Bow  or  Fort  Steel. 

About  this  time  Gilman  &  Carter  took  a  contract  to  get  out 
ties  to  build  the  Denver  Pacific  from  Cheyenne  to  Denver, 
agreeing  to  take  pay  for  same  in  Arapahoe  County,  Colorado, 
bonds.  We  outfitted  a  large  number  of  men  and  teams  at  our 
Sherman  Hill  camp  and  sent  some  with  pack  animals  across 
country  to  the  head  waters  of  the  Cache  La  Poudre  where 
we  had  planned  to  get  out  the  ties  and  float  them  down  that 
river  to  a  point  where  they  could  be  taken  out  and  hauled  to 
the  proposed  line  of  road.  It  took  some  nerve  to  bid  on  this 
contract.  While  the  price  was  a  good  one,  the  difficulties  were 
many  and  great  and  the  pay  was  not  cash  but  bonds  that  our 
company,  should  it  need  money,  might  have  to  discount 
largely.     In  the  space  of  two  miles  we  had  to  build  about 

153 


154  Trails  of  Yesterday 

thirty  bridges  in  order  to  get  our  teams,  men  and  supplies 
into  the  thick  timber. 

When  our  party  of  tie  choppers  with  pack  animals  was 
ready  to  start,  one  particular  Irishman,  whom  I  had  outfitted 
at  Sherman  camp,  with  his  pack  horse  loaded  high  and  heavily, 
grabbed  a  pair  of  buckskin  gloves,  saying  he  would  take  them 
to  remember  me  by,  and  started  out  of  the  store  on  a  run. 
I  had  to  halt  him  with  a  revolver  shot  which  grazed  his  boot- 
leg. He  dropped  the  gloves,  stopped  and  said  he  only  took 
them  for  a  joke.  Starting  the  day  after  the  Irishman  left,  to 
pilot  another  outfit,  we  overtook  my  friend,  who  had  loaded 
up  with  some  bottles  of  bad  whiskey  and  had  been  joined  by 
other  tie  choppers  with  pack  animals.  The  third  day  out  we 
got  into  the  La  Poudre  canons.  The  paths  were  narrow  and 
the  hills  very  steep.  The  Irishman  was  just  a  little  ahead  of 
us,  urging  his  pack  horse  along  over  the  narrow  trail  on  a 
high  ridge  along  the  side  of  a  deep  canon.  I  advised  all  to 
dismount;  and  all,  except  the  Irishman,  did.  He  continued 
riding  and  crowding  his  pack  horse,  whose  top-heavy  load 
caused  him  to  lose  his  footing  and  bounce  down  the  side  of 
the  steep  canon  from  rock  to  rock  until  the  poor  animal 
landed  feet  up,  on  the  top  of  a  tree.  A  shot  put  him  out  of 
his  misery.  Every  moment  we  expected  to  see  the  Irishman 
follow  the  beast  but  he  sat  his  horse,  more  drunk  than  sober, 
shouting:  "Look  at  him!  Look  at  him!!"  as  the  poor  horse 
rolled  over  and  bounded  from  rock  to  rock.  He  damned  his 
"sister's  cat,"  saying,  "There  was  the  only  property  I  owned 
in  America  and  gone  to  h — 1  in  a  minute." 

We  had  expended  about  $5000.00  on  roads  and  bridges 
up  the  La  Poudre  when  Mr.  Gilman  found  out  he  had  signed 
the  contract  on  Friday.  He  said  he  had  talked  the  matter  over 
with  his  wife  and  brother  and  they  had  all  agreed  that  the 
contract  would  prove  a  bad  one  and  he  wanted  to  get  out  of  it. 
He  requested  me  to  take  the  matter  up  with  Coe  &  Carter, 
which  I  did.  Coe  &  Carter  did  not  want  to  take  any  advan- 
tage of  the  Gilman  Brothers  and  tried  to  persuade  them  to 
stay  in  the  deal,  but  the  Gilmans  declined.     If  Coe  &  Carter 


Trails  of  Yesterday  155 

would  take  the  entire  contract,  the  Gilmans  agreed  to  lose 
their  share  of  money  expended  to  date.  This  was  agreed  to. 
Coe  &  Carter  filled  the  contract  and  made  $50,000.00  out 
of  it.    So  much  for  superstition. 

Settlers  in  that  part  of  Colorado  at  this  time  were  very 
scarce.  There  was,  however,  one  great  character,  known  as 
Buffalo  Jones,  living  on  the  La  Poudre  where  the  river  came 
out  of  the  hills.  He  had  several  charming  daughters  who 
could  lasso  and  ride  the  worst  bronco  or  Texas  steer  that 
ever  wore  hair.  The  life  history  of  these  frontier  people 
would  make  the  most  interesting  book  ever  published.  It  is 
claimed  that  Buffalo  Jones  had  a  standing  offer  of  $5000.00 
to  any  good  man  who  would  marry  one  of  his  daughters. 

I  was  kept  busy  in  looking  after  the  different  camps  until 
Mr.  Emerson  relieved  me  of  much  of  the  work  on  the  Cache 
La  Poudre. 

I  became  well  acquainted  with  Ben  Gallagher,  the  mer- 
chant groceryman  of  Cheyenne,  who  also  operated  other 
stores  along  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad  under  the  name  of 
Gallagher  &  Co.,  Gallagher  &  Nuckolls,  Gallagher  &  Mc- 
Grath,  and  later  under  the  firm  name  of  Paxton  &  Gallagher 
of  Omaha,  where  both  partners  later  died. 

S.  F.  Nuckolls  was  a  Nebraska  City  product  and  a  good, 
clean  man.  He  was  later  sent  to  Congress  as  a  delegate  from 
Utah.  I  remember  a  story  told  by  him.  He  said  he  and  a 
former  friend  living  at  Cheyenne  had  a  misunderstanding 
about  a  business  matter  and  both  decided  to  test  the  case  in 
court  at  Cheyenne.  Nuckolls  hired  A.  J.  Poppleton  and  his 
friend  James  M.  Woolworth  of  Omaha.  The  case  was 
called.  Mr.  Poppleton  opened  with  a  brief  statement  of  the 
case  and  so  lauded  Mr.  Nuckolls  as  an  upright,  honest  man 
that  Mr.  Nuckolls  was  very  much  elated  and  had  an  idea 
that  his  case  was  won  right  there.  Finally  Mr.  Woolworth 
rose  and  though  small  in  stature,  gave  Mr.  Nuckolls  such 
abuse  and  painted  him  so  black  that  Mr.  Nuckolls  could  not 
stand  it  but  got  up  and  walked  out  of  the  court  room.  After 
a  while  he  returned.     The  attorneys  had  been  arguing  some 


156  Trails  of  Yesterday 

law  points  which  the  judge  was  passing  on.  During  this  lull 
in  the  proceedings  one  of  the  attorneys  wrote  a  short  note  and 
passed  it  over  to  the  other  attorney,  who,  after  reading  it, 
crumpled  it  up  and  threw  it  under  the  table.  Mr.  Nuckolls 
had  a  curiosity  to  know  the  contents  of  that  note  and  seated 
himself  at  the  table,  where,  unknown  to  the  attorneys,  he 
pushed  the  paper  near  his  chair  with  his  foot  and  finally  picked 
it  up.  Unnoticed  he  put  it  in  his  pocket,  stole  out  of  the 
court  room  and  read  it.  It  read:  "What  shall  we  charge 
these  two  damn  fools  ?"  He  immediately  called  the  man  with 
whom  he  was  having  the  suit,  showed  him  the  note  and  before 
they  returned  to  the  court  room,  they  settled  their  difference, 
much  to  the  disappointment  of  the  two  attorneys.  Mr.  Nuck- 
olls told  me  this  was  his  first  and  last  lawsuit. 

At  Sherman  Station  I  became  well  acquainted  with  Mrs. 
Larimer  and  her  son,  who  kept  a  general  store  there,  bought 
and  sold  ties  and  cord  wood,  while  her  husband  had  a  star 
route  mail  contract  from  Point  of  Rocks  north.  She 
was  a  very  bright,  good,  business  woman.  She  also  had  a 
photograph  gallery  and  one  day  upon  my  return  from  the 
timber  she  insisted  upon  taking  my  picture.  Her  ambition 
was  to  be  the  mayor  of  Sherman  Station.  There  was  also  a 
Mrs.  Kelly  living  near  the  station.  These  two  women  and 
Mrs.  Larimer's  son  had  been  captured  by  the  Sioux  Indians 
near  Fort  Laramie.  Mrs.  Larimer  and  her  son,  after  two 
weeks'  captivity  in  the  lodge  of  the  chief,  stole  away  one 
night  and  though  the  Indians  hunted  them  day  and  night, 
they  succeeded  in  eluding  them  and  got  back  to  the  fort,  after 
suffering  unmentionable  cruelties.  Mrs.  Kelly,  not  so  fortu- 
nate, was  taken  by  the  Indians  up  on  the  Missouri  River  and 
kept  with  the  band  over  six  months.  The  squaws  stripped 
her  almost  nude,  appropriating  her  dress  and  skirts.  She  was 
finally  captured  from  the  band  by  a  company  of  United  States 
Cavalry  after  a  severe  fight.  Mrs.  Kelly  never  recovered 
from  the  shock  and  ill  treatment  she  received  while  with  the 
Indians.  She  made  a  fair  living  washing  the  clothes  of  our 
tie  and  wood  choppers.     All  pitied  and  helped  her  in  every 


Photograph  of  the  Writer  Taken  by  Mrs.  Lanmei 


Trails  of  Yesterday  157 

way  possible.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  soldier  killed  by  In- 
dians near  Fort  Laramie. 

It  was  at  the  Sherman  Hill  tie  camp  that  I  nearly  lost  my 
life  in  the  winter  of  1868.  Mr.  Gilman  had  wired  from 
Cheyenne  that  he  would  be  up  on  the  first  train  and  requested 
me  to  meet  him.  I  had  made  a  hard  drive  with  my  team  that 
day.  One  of  my  horses  became  lame  and  at  the  request  of 
Harry  Mullison,  a  sub-tie  contractor,  I  had  one  of  his  horses 
hitched  up  in  place  of  the  lame  one.  I  started  for  the  station, 
only  two  and  one-half  miles  south,  in  an  open  spring  wagon 
a  little  before  dark.  It  was  snowing  and  blowing  a  gale  and 
very  cold.  It  was  dark  when  I  arrived  at  the  station,  having 
experienced  much  trouble  and  delay  in  finding  my  way 
through  the  many  ricks  of  cord  wood  piled  thickly  four,  six 
and  eight  feet  high  north  of  the  station.  Many  of  the  ricks 
were  partially  buried  in  snow  and  the  high  drifts  of  snow 
between  the  ricks  made  it  very  difficult  to  follow  the  snow- 
covered  road.  After  waiting  about  two  hours  the  train  pulled 
in  with  three  large  engines — one  live  and  two  dead  ones — 
but  Mr.  Gilman  did  not  come.  I  had  given  orders  to  our 
stable  men  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  us,  knowing  there  was  no 
place  at  the  station  to  keep  either  of  us  or  the  team.  It  was 
ten  o'clock  when  I  started  from  the  station  for  camp.  The 
wind,  which  had  increased  in  violence,  was  still  coming  from 
the  north  and  I  had  to  face  it.  It  took  me  some  time  to  get 
out  of  the  woodpile  into  the  open,  where  I  had  to  take  the 
middle  of  the  three  roads.  I  took  careful  bearings  of  the 
wind,  got  on  the  right  road  and  had  proceeded  about  one-half 
mile  toward  camp,  when  the  storm  coming  to  my  right  con- 
vinced me  that  I  was  off  the  trail.  I  headed  my  team  to  the 
wind  but  had  not  gone  far  before  my  face  and  eyes,  as  was 
also  the  case  with  my  team,  were  plastered  over  with  freezing 
snow  and  ice,  making  it  impossible  to  see  my  hand  before  me. 

Afraid  of  driving  into  some  of  the  gulches  from  ten  to 
two  hundred  feet  deep  that  were  filled  with  snow,  I  concluded 
it  would  be  best  to  return  to  the  station  if  I  could  and  im- 
mediately turned  my  team's  back  to  the  wind.     After  con- 


158  Trails  of  Yesterday 

siderable  zigzagging,  I  got  back  on  what  I  took  to  be  the  road. 
This  I  followed  and  was  soon  rewarded  by  my  team's  trying 
to  wallow  through  the  snow  that  had  drifted  on  the  north  side 
of  a  six-foot  woodpile  and  finally  got  back  to  the  station. 
Harmon  &  Teats  kept  the  store  and  post  office  at  Sherman 
Station  at  this  time.  Mr.  Teats  who  had  not  retired,  was  not 
much  surprised  at  my  return  and  insisted  on  my  remaining, 
telling  me  to  help  myself  to  a  bed  on  the  counter  and  to  make 
use  of  a  pile  of  blankets  and  buffalo  robes  on  one  end  of  the 
same,  but  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  that  poor  team's 
standing  out  all  night  in  such  a  blizzard.  After  waiting  about 
an  hour,  I  started  again.  I  got  clear  of  the  woodpile  and 
must  have  traveled  nearly  a  mile  on  the  right  road  to  camp 
when  I  again  became  lost.  Had  I  driven  my  own  team,  it 
would  have  taken  me  safely  to  camp,  but  the  Mullison  horse 
being  a  stranger  to  that  road  and  camp  prevented  my  own 
horse  from  using  his  intelligence.  I  traveled  around  a  long 
time,  hoping  that  I  would  again  cross  the  trail  but  did  not. 
I  became  chilled  and  sleepy  but  well  knew  that  sleep  meant 
death.  The  storm  was  still  raging.  The  falling  snow  was 
swept  by  a  hurricane  wind  which  was  bitter  cold.  It  was  im- 
possible to  face  it  any  longer.  My  hands  and  feet  were  be- 
coming numb  and  my  face  was  covered  with  a  thick  plaster 
of  snow  and  ice.  I  finally  found  shelter  for  my  team  behind 
a  large  rock.  I  got  out  of  the  wagon  and  tied  the  team  to  the 
wheels,  spreading  over  them  what  blankets  I  had.  I  then 
commenced  and  kept  up  a  vigorous  gait  some  twenty  paces 
one  way  and  then  the  other.  I  beat  my  hands  and  arms, 
pinched  myself  and  rubbed  my  ears  and  nose  and  after  a  time 
succeeded  in  getting  my  blood  to  circulate.  I  had  on  heavy 
underwear,  fur  cap,  overcoat,  lined  gloves  and  warm,  heavy 
overshoes.  If  I  could  but  keep  awake  I  would  come  out  all 
right.  I  appealed  to  Him  who  cares  for  the  birds  and 
imagined  I  heard  a  voice,  louder  than  the  raging  storm  around 
me,  saying,  "I  will  protect  and  see  you  through."  It  was  none 
other  than  that  Guardian  Angel  that  my  good  mother  turned 
me  over  to  when  I  left  home. 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


159 


160  Trails  of  Yesterday 

I  thought  of  many  things  during  those  long  hours  waiting 
for  daybreak,  which  finally  came  but  with  it  no  cessation  of 
the  storm's  fury.  While  well  acquainted  with  the  topography 
of  the  country,  I  could  not  tell  where  I  was.  It  seemed  that 
I  was  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  snow  and  storm.  My  poor 
team  stood  with  heads  down  and  backs  to  the  storm.  I  pitied 
the  poor,  dumb  brutes.  Once  I  thought  I  would  get  on  the 
back  of  my  own  driving  horse,  give  him  the  rein  and  trust 
to  him  to  take  me  to  camp  but  I  was  too  numb  and  stiff  with 
cold  to  mount  him.  Not  a  speck  of  sunshine  came  out  the 
next  day,  which  was  Saturday.  I  traveled  and  traveled  with 
my  back  to  the  storm,  walking  beside  the  team  and  wagon, 
not  knowing  where  I  was  or  where  I  was  going.  Once  in  a 
while  I  would  run  up  against  a  huge  boulder,  shy  around  it, 
then  cross  some  deep  gully  filled  with  frozen  snow.  Several 
times  I  hallooed,  only  to  be  answered  by  the  echo.  The  storm 
still  kept  coming  but  I  could  not  tell  from  what  direction. 
At  last  night  came  and  found  me  sheltered  with  the  team 
under  a  ledge  of  rock  which  protected  us.  As  best  I  could 
I  fastened  the  blankets  over  the  horses,  tied  them  to  the 
wheels  and  put  the  spare  laprobe  around  myself.  I  continued 
for  a  time  to  walk  and  stamp  my  feet,  beat  my  hands,  arms 
and  limbs,  and  to  rub  my  face  and  ears  until  my  blood  was 
again  in  circulation.  I  stood  between  the  horses,  hoping  to 
keep  warm  and  depending  on  them  to  awaken  me  should 
sleep  overpower  me.  This  must  have  happened  in  spite  of 
my  continued  efforts  to  keep  awake  by  moistening  my  eyes 
with  my  wet  fingers.  I  felt  myself  falling  against  the  Mul- 
lison  horse,  that  had  some  broncho  blood  in  him.  He  gave 
a  sudden  jump  that  awoke  me.  My  thoughts  rambled.  What 
was  I  doing  here?  What  day  or  night  was  it?  Yes,  the 
message  said,  "Meet  me  Friday  evening."  Why  could  I 
not  have  something  to  eat?  And  I  began  to  beat  my  hands 
and  arms,  pinch  them  and  my  limbs,  cheeks  and  body  and  then 
tried  to  run  but  could  not.  My  feet  and  limbs  were  too  stiff 
and  numb. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  161 

This  was  the  longest  night  I  ever  spent  in  my  life.  Day- 
light came  at  last  but  I  seemed  to  be  enveloped  in  misty 
clouds,  which,  after  a  long  time,  broke  away  and  the  sun 
began  to  shine.  I  had  not  the  faintest  idea  where  I  was.  The 
hills,  rocks  and  trees  were  all  covered  with  frozen  snow. 

After  a  long  time,  owing  to  my  frozen  fingers,  I  managed 
to  hitch  the  team  to  the  wagon  and  I  started,  sitting  down  in 
the  bottom  of  the  wagon.  Every  now  and  then  I  tried  to 
shout  but  could  not.  Much  of  the  time  I  was  unable  to  guide 
the  team  and  allowed  them  to  take  their  own  course.  I  crossed 
many  gulches  and  canons  filled  with  frozen  snow. 

I  had  crossed  a  wide  and  what  must  have  been  a  deep 
canon  filled  with  snow  when  I  suddenly  saw  some  glittering 
object  ahead  but  could  not  make  out  what  it  was  until  I  came 
close  to  it.  It  must  have  been  the  railroad  track.  This  I  con- 
tinued to  follow  until  I  knew  no  more. 

It  was  getting  dark  when  I  came  to  my  senses  and  found 
myself  in  my  own  room  at  camp  surrounded  by  kind  friends 
who  had  been  working  over  me  several  hours,  trying  to  thaw 
out  my  frozen  face,  hands  and  feet.  Some  of  the  sixty  men  who 
had  been  out  hunting  for  me  since  Saturday  morning,  had  dis- 
covered the  team  several  miles  east  of  Sherman  Station. 
The  team  was  walking  west  along  the  railroad  track,  the  lines 
dragging  and  I  was  lying  unconscious  in  the  wagon.  It  was 
several  days  before  I  was  able  to  attend  to  business.  I  had 
again  many  reasons  to  think  that  my  Guardian  Angel  had 
still  an  interest  in  my  welfare. 

I  could  fill  many  pages  of  this  autobiography  with  very 
interesting  reading  should  I  recite  all  the  incidents  that  oc- 
curred while  at  this  camp,  but  will  mention  only  one  more. 

In  order  to  help  Mrs.  Larimer,  whose  husband  was  away 
much  of  the  time  attending  to  his  mail  contracts  from  Point 
of  Rocks  north,  I  had  agreed  to  receive  and  measure  for 
her  some  cord  wood  and  some  ties  that  some  Mexicans  had 
been  getting  out  on  contract.  A  number  of  the  ties  were  not 
up  to  specifications  and  I  rejected  them.     I  also  found  the 


162  Trails  of  Yesterday 

cord  wood  cribbed  and  some  of  it  very  loosely  piled,  for  which 
I  docked  them.  This  made  them  very  angry.  I  told  them 
that  was  the  best  I  could  do  and  if  not  satisfied,  they  could 
get  some  one  else  to  measure  and  receive  them.  I  gave  them 
a  statement  to  take  to  Mrs.  Larimer.  On  leaving  them  I  saw 
one  of  the  Mexicans  start  off  through  the  timber,  carrying  his 
rifle.  I  was  on  horseback  and  hurried  along  the  trail,  not 
wishing  to  let  him  get  ahead  of  me.  I  had  gone  nearly  half 
a  mile  when  I  suddenly  turned  my  horse's  head  in  a  thick  quak- 
ing asp  grove  and  awaited  results.  In  a  few  moments  I 
espied  through  the  branches  "Mr.  Mexican"  coming  up  the 
trail  on  a  run,  carrying  his  rifle  in  both  hands.  When  nearly 
opposite  me  I  pulled  my  six-shooter,  rode  out  to  the  trail,  faced 
him  and  asked  "Are  you  looking  for  me?"  He  did  not  know 
what  to  say  but  stammered  out  that  he  was  chasing  a  deer. 
I  marched  him  back  to  his  camp  at  the  point  of  my  revolver, 
and  turned  him  over  to  the  boss  contractor  with  instructions 
not  to  let  him  follow  my  trail  or  I  would  take  him  to  Chey- 
enne. I  am  satisfied  in  my  own  mind  that  this  Mexican  in- 
tended to  kill  me  if  he  could  shoot  me  in  the  back.  My  facing 
him  deprived  him  of  his  courage. 

We  had  stripped  the  hills  and  canons  for  many  miles 
north  of  Sherman  and  Tie  Siding  Stations  of  the  best  of  the 
timber,  both  for  ties  and  wood,  and  had  let  many  sub-contracts 
for  ties,  poles  and  wood  to  be  gotten  out  of  the  South  Side 
hills,  twelve  to  twenty  miles  south  of  Tie  Siding.  There  was 
a  large  number  of  tie  contractors  at  work  on  both  sides  of 
the  railroad,  among  whom  could  be  mentioned  Paxton  & 
Turner  and  Sprague,  Davis  &  Company. 

I  remember  some  tie  choppers  getting  after  Sprague, 
Davis  &  Company  with  a  rope  intending  to  hang  all  members 
of  the  firm  because  they  could  not  get  their  pay.  These  con- 
tractors were  not  entirely  to  blame  for  this.  Credit  Mobilier 
Company  was  often  short  of  funds.  Some  moneyed  men  of 
Wall  street  in  those  days  looked  upon  the  building  of  the 
Union  Pacific  Railroad  as  a  wild  undertaking.  Its  stocks  and 
bonds  could  hardly  be  given  away  and  it  took  nerve  to  get 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


163 


out  ties,  poles,  logs  and  wood  for  a  company  so  noted  for  slow 
pay  as  "Credit  Mobilier."  I,  at  one  time,  as  cashier  for 
Gilman  &  Carter,  had  over  eleven  hundred  thousand  dollars 
of  this  company's  paper.  Our  firm  did  over  three  million 
dollars'  worth  of  work  for  this  company  and  to  my  knowl- 
edge never  lost  one  dollar  of  it.  All  honor  to  the  men  who 
conceived  and  built  the  Union  and  Southern  Pacific  Rail- 
roads, thus  uniting  by  the  iron  horse,  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific 
Oceans  when  the  golden  spike  was  driven  at  Ogden. 


Driving  the  Golden  Spike 

Our  company  had  established  tie  and  wood  camps  at 
Rock  Creek  and  Medicine  Bow,  but  after  Gilman  Brothers 
had  declined  to  continue  co-partnership  in  furnishing  ties,  etc., 
to  the  Denver  Pacific  (the  railroad  planned  from  Cheyenne 
to  Denver)  a  dissolution  of  the  firm  of  Gilman  &  Carter  was 
thought  advisable.  Mr.  John  Gilman  wanted  me  to  go  with 
the  Gilman  Brothers,  while  Coe  &  Carter  desired  that  I  re- 
main with  them.  I  chose  the  latter.  I  had  disbursed  probably 
two  million  dollars  but  had  a  voucher  to  show  for  every 
dollar,  except  perhaps,  postage  stamps.  All  members  of  the 
firm  had  implicit  confidence  in  my  honesty.  General  Coe 
still  insisted  that  I  join  them  in  the  cattle  business. 


164  Trails  of  Yesterday 

During  the  summer  of  1869  Gilman  &  Carter  took  a 
2800-ton  hay  contract  to  be  delivered  in  stack  at  Fort  Mc- 
Pherson,  Nebraska,  and  I  was  sent  there  to  fill  the  contract. 
It  was  arranged  that  after  this  was  filled  I  take  an  active 
interest  with  Coe  &  Carter  in  the  cattle  business.  General  Coe 
had  again  gone  to  Texas  to  buy  several  thousand  Texas  cattle. 
The  Gilman  Brothers  were  very  much  disappointed  when  they 
learned  I  had  decided  to  take  an  interest  with  Coe  &  Carter. 
All  four  were  good  men  in  their  respective  ways. 

General  Coe  was  exacting,  overbearing  at  times.  If  his 
mind  was  made  up,  it  was  very  hard  to  change  him.  He  was 
sharp  and  shrewd,  and  knew  all  the  tricks  in  the  trade.  At 
this  particular  time  he  was  more  wealthy  than  Mr.  Carter. 

Mr.  Carter  was  plain,  unassuming,  easy-going,  a  deep 
thinker,  the  soul  of  honor,  cool  and  deliberate  and  hard  to 
change  when  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  but  could  be  reasoned 
with  at  all  times. 

The  Gilman  Brothers'  business  was  handled  by  John  Gil- 
man, who  was  a  big-hearted  fellow  and  had  the  gift  of  in- 
gratiating himself  into  our  confidence  and  we  could  not  help 
but  like  him.  He  was  remarkable  for  his  genuine  hospitality, 
frank  business  ways  and  sunny  good-nature.  He  always  had 
a  good  story  to  tell  and  tried  to  make  people  happy. 

Reverting  to  Mr.  Carter  I  will  tell  one  transaction  that 
sheds  a  flood  of  light  on  his  true  character.  He  and  Mr. 
McDaniels  had  taken  a  mixed  horse  and  mule  train  of  flour  to 
sell  at  Denver  in  i860.  On  arrival  at  Denver  they  found 
the  wheat  flour  market  glutted  but  there  was  a  big  demand 
for  buckwheat  flour.  They  had  been  in  Denver  some  time 
but  could  not  get  a  bid  for  their  flour.  Mr.  Carter  had  occa- 
sion to  make  a  trip  up  Cherry  Creek.  He  had  been  gone  a 
couple  of  days  and  on  his  return  Mr.  McDaniels  met  him  in 
camp  and  was  elated  to  inform  him  that  he  had  sold  the  flour. 

Mr.  Carter  was  agreeably  surprised  to  learn  this  and 
anxious  to  know  the  name  of  the  buyer.  Mr.  McDaniels 
told  him  that,  since  everybody  wanted  buckwheat  flour,  he  had 


General  Cc 


Levi  Carter 


Trails  of  Yesterday  165 

bought  a  lot  of  buckwheat  flour  sacks  and  about  twenty  sacks 
of  buckwheat  flour.  He  then  put  their  flour  into  the  empty 
buckwheat  sacks  with  a  little  buckwheat  flour  on  top  in  each 
sack  and  sold  it  all  for  buckwheat  flour  and  had  the  money  for 
it  in  his  pocket.  At  this  information  Mr.  Carter  became  very 
angry  and  told  him  that  he  would  not  have  his  name  coupled 
with  such  a  fraud  and  deception.  They  divided  that  night, 
Mr.  Carter  accepting  as  his  share  just  what  his  share  of  the 
wheat  flour  was  worth  and  Mr.  McDaniels  pocketed  the 
balance.  Mr.  McDaniels  remained  in  Denver  and  became 
very  wealthy.  Mr.  Carter  returned  to  the  Missouri  River 
where  he  later  became  associated  with  General  Coe  in  freight- 
ing and  contracting. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Experiences  at  Fort  McPherson  and  Wood  River — A   Government 

Hay  Contract — Buffalo  Bill  and  Other  Friends — The  Burke 

Family — The  Fair  Daughter — Embark  in  the  Cattle 

Business — A   Compromise  with  the  Pawnees — 

Battle  between  the  Pawnees  and  Sioux — 

Raw  Corn  Only  on  My  Menu — 

Again  My  Guardian  Angel 

Protects 

IN  the  latter  part  of  July,  1869,  I  arrived  at  Fort  Mc- 
Pherson, Nebraska,  with  sufficient  horse  and  mule  teams 
and  machinery  to  fill  this  hay  contract.  Charles  Mc- 
Donald, who  kept  the  same  store  that  we  passed  at  this  fort  in 
1866,  was  given  a  sub-contract  by  us  of  several  hundred  tons 
which  he  filled  according  to  agreement. 

I  remember  Mr.  McDonald  at  the  time  we  first  passed 
through  Fort  McPherson.  I  did  some  trading  in  his  store 
and  saw  him  sell  a  stick  of  cord  wood,  four  feet  long  and 
about  four  inches  in  diameter  at  the  top  end,  to  an  emigrant 
for  $1.00.  The  emigrant  paid  the  price  so  cheerfully  that 
Mr.  McDonald  stood  and  looked  at  him  several  moments 
after  receiving  his  money.  It  was  raining  and  buffalo  chips 
would  not  burn.  Mr.  McDonald  might  have  been  debating 
in  his  own  mind  as  to  whether  he  had  sold  the  wood  too 
cheap.  The  emigrant  might  have  paid  more  if  asked,  but 
Mr.  McDonald  wanted  to  be  fair  and  reasonable. 

While  filling  this  contract  here  I  first  met  W.  F.  Cody, 
later  better  known  as  Colonel  Cody,  or  Buffalo  Bill.  He 
was  employed  at  this  fort  as  scout  and  guide.  There  were 
several  companies  of  cavalry  and  some  infantry  stationed 
here,  busy  keeping  the  Indians  in  line.  Indian  raids  on 
emigrants,  freighters,  ranchmen,  stage  coaches  and  settlers, 
including  government  stock,  were  frequent.  The  Sioux, 
under  pretext  of  hunting  buffalo,  would  often  swoop  down 
on  the  peaceful  Pawnees,  and  many  horrible,  bloody  battle- 

166 


Trails  of  Yesterday  167 

fields  between  the  Platte  and  Republican  rivers  resulted  when 
these  tribes  met.  The  Pawnees  usually  got  the  worst  of  it. 
I  remember  seeing  one  of  these  battlefields  near  the  Re- 
publican River  and  do  not  want  to  see  another  like  it. 

While  we  were  filling  this  hay  contract,  many  raids  were 
made  by  thieving  bands  of  Sioux  on  the  government  herds 
of  horses  and  mules,  also  on  nearby  settlers.  Among  these 
settlers  who  lost  their  homes  and  all  their  stock  may  be 
mentioned  John  Burke,  who  had  for  the  second  time  started 
a  home  about  seven  miles  west  of  this  fort,  when  thieving 
bands  of  Sioux  swooped  down  on  his  ranch  and  drove  off 
all  his  stock,  including  a  large  herd  of  valuable  mules. 

The  Burkes  were  living  at  the  Fitchie  Ranch,  which  they 
later  bought,  together  with  the  old  Ben  Holladay  Stage 
Station  about  two  miles  west  of  the  fort.  This  they  later 
improved  and  made  their  home.  It  was  here,  seven  years 
later  that  I  wooed,  won  and  married  Miss  Elizabeth  Burke. 

A  few  years  before  this,  Mr.  Burke  had  built  a  wagon 
bridge  near  the  mouth  of  the  South  Platte  River  where  it 
flowed  into  the  North  Platte,  but  high  water  had  carried  it 
away,  much  to  the  disappointment  of  the  traveling  public  who 
wanted  to  go  West  by  the  way  of  what  was  then  known  as 
North  Platte  City.  He  then  built  his  other  bridges  over  the 
Platte  River  proper  south  of  McPherson  Station  and  north- 
west of  the  fort,  to  accommodate  the  hauling  of  freight, 
provisions,  and  feed  for  the  troops  stationed  there  and  for 
which  he  received  forty-five  cents  per  hundred.  Mr.  Burke 
was  an  industrious,  honest  man,  with  a  good  wife,  the  mother 
of  eight  children — seven  boys  and  one  girl.  He  was  a  great 
worker,  very  enterprising,  and  did  not  know  what  fear  was. 
He  built  the  first  irrigation  ditch  in  Lincoln  County,  Nebraska, 
taking  the  water  out  of  the  south  bank  of  the  Platte  River  on 
Section  36,  Township  13,  Range  29,  West  of  the  Sixth 
Principal  Meridian.  He  raised  good  crops  of  oats  and  vege- 
tables which  brought  a  big  price.  Later  he  built  a  railroad  out 
of  logs  and  ties  in  what  was  called  Cut  Canon,  crossing  the 


168  Trails  of  Yesterday 

divide  between  the  Platte  River  and  Medicine  Creek,  south  of 
Fort  McPherson,  to  facilitate  the  getting  out  of  wood,  logs, 
ties  and  telegraph  poles  to  fill  his  contract  with  the  Govern- 
ment and  Credit  Mobilier  or  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad 
Company. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  Indians  ran  off  all  his 
horse  and  mule  stock.  He  followed  the  trail  nearly  two 
months  alone  through  Nebraska,  Kansas,  and  Indian  Terri- 
tory but  did  not  recover  a  hoof  of  the  stock.  Mr.  Harvey, 
who  is  now  engaged  in  marking  the  Oregon  Trail  through 
Nebraska,  was  engaged  by  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad  Com- 
pany in  classifying  its  lands  north  of  Medicine  Creek  and  saw 
this  band  of  Indians  rush  by  him  with  Mr.  Burke's  stock, 
only  saving  himself  and  men  by  remaining  hidden  in  the  thick 
brush  while  the  Indians  passed. 

Too  much  credit  cannot  be  given  to  such  pioneers  as  Mr. 
John  Burke,  his  wife  Margratha  and  family,  for  the  active 
part  they  have  played  as  early  settlers  of  Lincoln  County, 
Nebraska. 

I  became  acquainted  with  some  of  the  officers  at  this 
Post — all  good,  genial  fellows — one  of  whom  was  Major 
Walker,  who,  I  believe,  came  with  General  Carr's  Fifth 
Cavalry.  One  Captain  Hayes  was  Quartermaster — very  ex- 
acting but  always  reasonable.  There  were  also  several  nice 
families  at  the  Post:  the  McDonalds,  Snells,  Ericssons, 
Burkes  and  Codys,  including  the  Colonel's  two  sisters,  both 
fearless  riders.  There  was  also  the  same  old,  genial  Sam 
Watts  whom  I  first  saw  at  Fort  Sedgwick  as  acting  Post- 
master, and  later  at  Cheyenne  with  Preacher  Bulen,  when  he 
took  me  into  the  first  dance  house  I  ever  was  in.  Later  came 
Luke  Healey,  Maggie  Cohen,  John  Murray,  Louis  Wooden, 
George  Dillard,  Charles  Hendy,  and  many  other  good  people. 

I  had  no  time  for  sociabilities,  hence  did  not  go  to  any 
of  the  Fort  dances,  which  were  said  to  be  very  pleasant  affairs. 

Among  the  noted  frontier  characters  I  met  here  was  "Old 
Turgeon,"  the  Indian  trader  and  inventor  of  the  famous 


Trails  of  Y  ester  dan  169 

"Turgeon  Blanket."  Turgeon  accompanied  Frank  E.  Coe, 
General  Coe's  son,  and  me  on  a  buffalo  hunt  at  the  head  of 
the  Stinking  Water,  where  he  got  mired  and  we  had  to  pull 
him  out  with  ropes. 

Among  other  characters  I  met  and  grubstaked  many 
times  were  Jimmy  Cannon,  who  claimed  to  be  the  only  surviv- 
ing child  of  the  Alamo  Massacre;  Edward  Moran,  after 
whom  Moran  canon  is  named,  and  whom  the  Sioux  Indians 
called  "Iron  Legs"  because  he  could  outwalk  the  swiftest- 
footed  Sioux;  Leon  Palladay,  a  Sioux  Indian  interpreter,  who 
later  married  one  of  Mr.  Moran's  daughters;  Tod  Randall, 
a  squaw  man  and  a  recognized  Sioux  Indian  authority;  Wil- 
liam Peniston  of  the  firm  of  Peniston  &  Miller,  proprietors 
of  the  Midway  road  ranch  until  the  Sioux  burned  it,  when 
they,  like  others,  had  to  flee  to  save  their  lives  and  the  lives 
of  their  families.  Mr.  Peniston  was  United  States  Commis- 
sioner and  claimed  to  be  a  descendant  of  Lord  Peniston  of 
England.     He  was  a  good,  genial  fellow. 

The  noted  Jack  Morrow  was  still  at  his  ranch  some 
twelve  miles  west  of  McPherson  but  these  thieving  bands  of 
Sioux  never  bothered  him.  He  was  usually  the  beneficiary 
of  these  Indian  raids;  so  much  so,  that  the  commander  at 
Fort  McPherson  gave  Jack  a  hint  to  leave  and  he  did.  This 
broke  up  a  bad  nest  of  hard  characters,  both  whites  and 
Indians. 

At  the  Fort  lived  E.  E.  Ericsson,  Jacob  Snell,  and  others. 
Poor  Mr.  Ericsson  had  incurred  the  displeasure  of  the 
commanding  officer  and  that  autocrat  ordered  the  Ericssons 
to  move,  and  because  they  did  not  do  so  promptly,  had  some 
soldiers  tear  the  roof  off  their  little  home,  thus  exposing  a 
sick  wife  and  some  small  children  to  inclement  weather  until 
kind  friends  took  them  in  and  cared  for  them. 

Sam  Fitchie,  about  a  mile  west  of  the  Fort,  kept  the 
Fitchie  ranch,  formerly  the  Ben  Holladay  Mail  Coach 
Station. 

Over  at  McPherson  Station  on  the  Union  Pacific  Rail- 
road,    about    three    and    one-half    miles    north    of    Fort 


170  Trails  of  Yesterday 

McPherson,  lived  the  Plumers,  McCulloughs,  Hanrahans, 
Wilsons,  and  our  genial,  sometimes  dependable,  friend 
Rooney  who  kept  a  small  road  ranch  near  the  Station.  Emi- 
grants and  others  could  stay  at  Rooney's,  provided  Rooney 
took  a  liking  to  them,  but  if  he  did  not,  woe  be  to  them  ! 

I  was  often  called  to  the  station  to  receive  freight  for  our 
outfit  and  would  sometimes  go  over  with  a  team  at  night  to 
receive  it,  the  agent,  Mr.  Plumer,  being  very  accommodating. 

Sometimes  I  would  stay  all  night  at  Rooney's,  where  I 
was  always  welcome.  I  remember  staying  there  one  night 
when  the  other  guest,  who  was  an  emigrant,  had  incurred 
Rooney's  dislike  by  kneeling  in  prayer  and  talking  religion  to 
him.  After  breakfast  the  emigrant  asked  what  his  bill  was. 
Rooney  told  him  $10.00,  which  was  about  $7.00  too  much. 
The  emigrant  remonstrated  against  the  high  price,  but  to  no 
effect.  Rooney  pulled  a  wicked-looking  revolver  from  under 
the  counter  and  told  the  emigrant  to  put  the  $10.00  on  the 
counter  and  "skin."  He  obeyed  and  soon  left,  no  doubt  glad 
that  he  was  living.  Before  I  left,  Rooney  called  Mrs.  JRooney 
from  the  kitchen  into  the  store  and  begged  her  to  sing  the 
song  that  won  him,  which  she  would  have  done  had  I  not 
excused  her  at  this  time. 

While  filling  the  2800-ton  hay  contract  at  Fort 
McPherson,  I  was  suddenly  summoned  by  an  orderly  to  the 
Commanding  Officer's  quarters.  Before  reporting  to  that 
gentleman  I  thought  best  to  see  our  wagon  boss  Robinson, 
who,  on  being  questioned,  said  he  had  disobeyed  my  orders 
and  had  that  morning  taken  in  four  loads  of  slough  grass.  I 
ordered  him  back  on  the  trot  with  four  teams  and  instructed 
him  to  pick  up  every  particle  of  that  slough  grass  and  dump 
it  on  the  manure  pile.  He  did  this  before  I  had  a  chance  to 
explain  matters  to  the  Post  Commander,  to  whom  I  later 
reported.  That  officer  read  the  riot-act  to  me  and  wanted 
to  know  what  kind  of  hay  I  was  bringing  in.  He  said  it 
was  not  fit  for  bedding  and  requested  that  I  accompany  him 
to  see  for  myself.  I  did  so,  but  on  arrival  at  the  hay  corrals 
all  the  slough  grass  had  been  removed.     The  Commander 


Trails  of  Yesterday  171 

was  nonplussed  and  could  not  explain  matters  until  I  told 
him  that,  on  learning  that  four  loads  of  the  poor  quality  of 
hay  had  been  brought  in,  I  immediately  ordered  the  teams  to 
gather  it  all  up  and  dump  it  on  the  manure  pile.  The 
General  stood  and  looked  at  me  several  moments  and  said  he 
could  not  understand  how  we  had  removed  it  so  quickly.  I 
invited  him  to  come  and  see  for  himself.  He  did  so,  and  on 
seeing  the  hay,  all  bright  but  a  trifle  long,  dumped  among  the 
stable  refuse,  he  seemed  satisfied  and  told  me  that  he  had 
confidence  in  me  and  was  willing  to  allow  me  from  that  time 
on,  in  the  absence  of  the  Quartermaster,  to  pass  on  the  quality 
of  hay  required. 

Instead  of  stopping  us  when  we  had  the  2800  tons  in,  the 
Commander  allowed  us  to  put  in  3300  tons,  and  I  was  highly 
complimented  by  both  the  Commanding  Officer  and  Captain 
Hayes,  the  Quartermaster,  as  to  the  manner  in  which  I  had 
filled  the  contract,  which  was  at  $8.45  per  ton  delivered  in 
stack  in  the  hay  corrals  at  the  Fort. 

On  the  close  of  this  contract,  the  last  work  I  did  for  the 
firm  of  Gilman  &  Carter,  I  disposed  of  all  the  extra  stock, 
wagons,  harness,  ox  yokes,  and  machinery,  retaining  one  span 
of  mules,  wagon,  harness  and  mess  kit,  and  two  old  employees, 
the  Botkin  Brothers,  and  started  them  with  the  outfit  to 
"Dobytown"  (old  Fort  Kearny),  about  the  middle  of 
October,  1869,  to  await  the  arrival  of  some  2500  Texas 
cattle  that  General  Coe  was  bringing  up.  I  had  agreed  to 
embark  in  the  cattle  business  with  General  Coe  and  Levi 
Carter,  under  the  firm  name  of  John  Bratt  &  Co.,  I  purchas- 
ing Jack  Wait's  interest. 

The  outfit  started.  I  took  the  train  to  Omaha  with  a  view 
to  settling  up  my.  accounts  with  the  firm  of  Gilman  &  Carter, 
for  whom  I  had  disbursed  nearly  two  million  dollars.  I  am 
pleased  to  say  that  my  accounts  checked  out  within  two  cents, 
which  proved  to  be  a  two-cent  stamp  for  which  I  had  not  re- 
ceived credit.  Both  Mr.  Gilman  and  Mr.  Carter  gave  me 
considerable  praise  for  my  faithfulness  in  caring  for  their 
interests  in  the  manner  1  had,  and  Mr.  Gilman  expressed  his 


172  Trails  of  Yesterday 

regret  that  I  had  concluded  to  cast  my  lot  with  Coe  &  Carter 
instead  of  with  him  and  his  brother  Jed. 

The  settlement  over,  I  hastened  to  Fort  Kearny  or  "Doby- 
town,"  where  shortly  after  I  received  the  herd  of  Texas 
cattle  brought  there  by  General  Coe  and  his  Texas  men. 

This  last  herd  had  received  hard  usage  from  the  start 
from  San  Antonio.  Bad  white  men  and  hostile  Indians  had 
bothered  General  Coe  en  route.  They  had  stampeded  the 
cattle  several  times  and  a  number  had  gone  back  (especially 
old  brush  steers)  to  the  old  range.  Cattle  inspectors  had  held 
the  General  up  for  blackmail  and  one  mean,  ugly,  desperado 
inspector  had  been  killed  by  the  ranchman  who  sold  General 
Coe  the  herd  of  cattle.  The  evidence  at  the  trial  justified  the 
killing  and  the  ranchman  was  acquitted.  The  result  of  all  this 
delay  was  that  the  cattle  arrived  thin  and  many  of  them 
footsore. 

It  was  decided  that  five  hundred  of  the  poorest  ones  be 
cut  out  and  wintered  near  there  on  the  Platte  River  if  sufficient 
feed  could  be  procured  to  care  for  them.  With  one  Texas 
man  and  the  two  Botkin  Brothers  I  took  charge  of  this  bunch 
of  "skins"  and  "crips"  and  General  Coe  proceeded  with  the 
remainder  of  the  herd  to  the  ranch  west  of  Fort  McPherson. 
I  fortunately  ran  on  to  some  five  hundred  or  more  tons  of  hay 
that  had  been  put  up  on  the  Denman  island  by  James  Jackson, 
who  kept  a  general  store  at  Wood  River,  about  three  miles 
north  of  the  hay.  This  hay  I  purchased  and  found  an  ideal 
place — heavy  timber,  lots  of  brush  and  a  nice  flowing  spring — 
on  the  north  bank  of  the  Platte  River,  where  I  could  feed, 
shelter  and  water  the  cattle,  safely  protected  from  the  storms. 
The  location  struck  me  so  favorably  that  on  finding  it  to  be 
vacant  government  land  I  decided  to  preempt  that  160  acres. 
After  getting  the  cattle  on  it,  making  a  road  through  the 
brush  and  a  couple  of  channels  to  the  hay  stacks,  and  locating 
our  camp,  one  morning  I  set  out  on  horseback  to  Grand 
Island,  about  sixteen  miles  distant,  intending  to  preempt  this 
land,  which  I  did. 

At  this  time  Grand  Island  was  a  small  place  of  perhaps 


Trails  of  Yesterday  173 

four  hundred  people.  Koenig  &  Webe  had  a  store  there, 
which  I  think  was  called  "The  O.  K."  There  were  several 
saloons. 

I  returned  to  camp  next  day.  Imagine  my  surprise  and 
chagrin  at  finding  our  cattle,  horses  and  men  surrounded  by 
about  seven  hundred  Pawnee  Indians,  who  insisted  on  our 
moving  at  once,  claiming  that  this  particular  location  had 
been  their  winter  camp  for  many  years.  I  tried  to  tell  them 
through  their  interpreter  that  I  desired  to  hold  these  poor 
cattle  here  until  the  grass  came  in  the  spring,  when  I  should 
be  glad  to  move  them  to  where  our  other  cattle  were  near  Fort 
McPherson.  They  objected,  hence  I  was  up  against  a  serious 
proposition.  Their  chief  told  me  I  must  leave  before  the 
next  sunrise.  I  sent  to  the  Jackson  store  for  a  wagon-load  of 
flour,  sugar,  coffee,  beans,  syrup,  crackers,  soda,  and  other 
provisions,  and  that  night  killed  two  of  the  fattest  cows  in  the 
bunch  and  gave  the  Indians  a  big  feast,  which  pleased  them, 
but  they  still  insisted  that  I  must  leave.  They  said  my  heart 
was  good  but  I  could  not  stay.  I  spent  a  sleepless  night  on 
horseback  watching  the  cattle  with  my  three  men. 

The  next  morning  I  moved  the  cattle  out  of  the  brush  and 
timber  to  the  open  prairie  north  of  the  Pawnee  camp.  I  left 
one  man  in  charge  of  the  camp,  the  other  two  in  charge  of  the 
cattle  and  horses,  while  I  went  to  Wood  River  Station  and 
wired  the  bank  with  which  we  did  business  in  Omaha,  to  send 
by  first  express  seven  hundred  ten-cent  shin  plasters.  They 
arrived  the  next  day — all  new,  crisp  and  attractive  looking. 

As  soon  as  I  arrived  at  camp  I  told  the  interpreter  to 
have  all  the  Indians — bucks,  squaws  and  papooses — pass  by 
the  end  of  the  wagon  in  which  I  stood  and  as  they  filed  by  I 
gave  to  each,  even  to  the  little  babe  tied  on  the  mother's  back, 
one  little  ten-cent  greenback.  This  so  pleased  the  Indians  that 
after  another  feast,  at  which  some  dogs  were  killed  and  eaten 
and  a  big  pow-wow  held,  I  was  given  to  understand  I  could 
remain  there  with  the  cattle  until  the  grass  came,  on  con- 
dition that  I  build  a  large  log  ranch  or  building,  large  enough 
to  accommodate  the  squaws,  papooses  and  old  warriors  in 


174  Trails  of  Yesterday 

case  of  a  Sioux  or  Cheyenne  Indian  attack.  I  readily  agreed 
to  this  as  timber  was  plentiful  around  us.  I  built  a  log  build- 
ing with  port  holes  on  all  sides  and  assured  them  that  in  case 
of  attack  we  would  help  fight  their  enemies,  all  of  which 
pleased  them  greatly. 

One  Pawnee  warrior,  named  "Skitty  Butts,"  was  so 
pleased  with  my  action  and  our  mild  protests  against  his  help- 
ing himself  to  our  provisions  whenever  he  wanted  to,  that  he 
very  generously  expressed  a  willingness  to  give  me  his  beauti- 
ful sixteen  year  old  sister  for  a  wife,  but  I  courteously 
declined,  telling  him  that  I  did  not  need  a  wife. 

"Skitty  Butts"  was  not  the  only  one  to  crowd  our  little 
cook  tent  at  meal  times.  Sometimes  as  many  as  fifty  bucks, 
squaws  and  papooses  would  be  hanging  around  for  something 
to  eat.  The  hatchet  was  buried.  The  pipe  of  peace  was 
often  passed  around  to  us  and  in  turn  smoked.  Twice  during 
the  winter  a  big  feast  was  held  by  the  Indians.  Many  dogs, 
skunks,  beavers,  and  musk-rats,  were  served  on  these  au- 
spicious occasions,  to  which,  as  a  rule,  we  were  cordially  in- 
vited. We  dared  not  refuse  to  attend  or  to  partake  of  the 
feast,  which  was  presided  over  by  their  head  medicine  men, 
chanting  war  songs,  praising  the  valiant  deeds  of  their  fore- 
fathers and  invoking  the  aid  and  good  will  of  the  Great  Spirit 
in  their  proposed  buffalo  hunts  on  the  Republican  River.  I 
have  often  been  compelled  to  eat  at  these  feasts  when  the  odor 
alone  would  make  me  deathly  sick.  I  dared  not  refuse,  since 
if  any  bad  luck  had  occurred  or  anything  gone  wrong,  all 
would  have  been  laid  to  me  and  the  penalty  would  have  been 
death  and  the  confiscation  of  our  cattle  and  outfit. 

On  one  of  these  buffalo  hunts  on  the  Republican  River  the 
Sioux  attacked  the  Pawnees,  killing  nearly  two  hundred  bucks 
and  squaws,  besides  some  papooses.  I  went  over  with  a  squad 
of  cavalry  from  the  "Dobytown"  fort  or  garrison  and  saw 
the  result  of  this  fight,  which  was  a  complete  victory  for  the 
Sioux.  The  Pawnees  had  sold  their  lives  as  dearly  as  possible, 
but  the  Sioux  had  the  advantage  of  position  and  numbers  and 
showed  no  mercy  to  the  brave  little  band  of  Pawnees.    Scalps 


Sioux  Squatv  and  Papoc 


Pawnee  and  Sioux  Indians 


Trails  of  Yesterday  175 

were  taken  and  the  bodies  frightfully  mutilated.  Even  a 
young  squaw  mother  with  a  babe  at  her  breast  was  not  spared. 
A  pack  of  hungry  wolves  and  coyotes  was  feasting  on  the 
unburied  bodies  of  the  victims. 

Be  it  said  to  the  credit  of  the  officers  and  soldiers  of  the 
squad  who  went  over  the  battle  ground,  that  the  bodies  were 
carefully  gathered  up,  wrapped  in  blankets  and  buried  not 
far  from  where  we  found  them  in  that  silent  valley  near  the 
Republican  River.  Some  posts  were  set  up  at  the  ends  of  the 
trenches  in  which  the  bodies  were  laid.  I  am  told  that  noth- 
ing is  left  to  tell  the  story  of  this  bloody  battle.  The  posts 
have  disappeared  long  ago,  the  mounds  have  sunken  and  the 
battle  ground  is  now  a  cornfield. 

The  Pawnees  that  remained  at  our  camp  and  the  few 
that  got  away  and  returned  manifested  their  sorrow  in  dif- 
ferent ways;  some  cried  loudly  like  the  Sioux  on  the  death 
of  a  relative,  others  would  sit  for  hours  with  faces  covered 
with  their  blankets,  weeping  in  silence  and  vowing  vengeance 
on  their  deadly  enemies  for  the  brutal  butchery  of  nearly  two 
hundred  of  the  flower  of  their  tribe. 

"Skitty  Butts"  sister,  who  could  shoot  an  arrow  as  straight 
as  her  brother  and  who,  it  was  said,  had  killed  several  buffalo 
and  other  game,  went  with  this  hunting  party,  was  captured 
and  carried  off  by  a  young  Sioux  chief. 

Time  passed  quickly.  We  were  kept  busy  feeding  and 
caring  for  the  cattle,  and  while  much  snow  fell  and  the  winter 
was  a  cold  one,  the  cattle  went  through  without  much  loss. 
We  caught  some  thieving  white  men  driving  some  of  them  off 
to  an  island  in  the  Platte  River,  where  they  butchered  them, 
took  the  meat  to  Grand  Island  and  sold  it. 

As  stated,  we  had  turned  the  large  log  house  over  to 
the  Indians  and  the  men  and  I  lived  in  the  two  tents.  It  was 
an  agreeable  change  when  spring  came  and  the  grass  was 
high  enough  so  the  cattle  began  to  leave  their  hay  and 
graze  on  the  open  prairie. 

About  May  10,  1870,  we  broke  up  camp  and  moved  the 
cattle  across  Wood  River  to  Prairie  Creek,  bidding  adieu  to 


176  Trails  of  Yesterday 

our  Pawnee  Indian  friends,  who  bade  us  an  affectionate 
good-bye.  I  met  some  of  these  later  while  supplying  their 
agency  at  Genoa  with  beef,  and  others  a  few  years  later  acting 
as  scouts  for  the  Government  under  Major  North.  Later,  in 
1876,  the  tribe  was  removed  from  Nebraska  to  a  reservation 
of  283,000  acres  in  Oklahoma,  since  which  time  their  number 
has  greatly  decreased. 

We  had  not  been  many  days  in  camp  on  Prairie  Creek 
when  my  three  men  struck  for  higher  wages.  I  was  paying 
them  $45.00  per  month  and  board.  They  wanted  $55.00  per 
month  and  board.  The  Sioux  had  just  been  making  some 
raids  on  the  settlers,  mostly  cattlemen,  on  the  Loup  rivers, 
and  my  men  thought  we  would  be  the  next  to  be  attacked  on 
another  raid  that  the  Sioux  had  planned  on  the  Pawnees.  Our 
temporary  camp  on  Prairie  Creek  would  be  on  the  route 
should  they  carry  out  this  threat.  I  sent  word  to  the  Pawnees 
at  our  old  camp  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  this  proposed  attack, 
which  they  headed  off  by  all  moving  back  to  Genoa  on  the 
double-quick.  This  information  being  sent  to  the  war  party 
of  Sioux  probably  saved  us  from  attack.  I  tried  to  reason 
with  my  men.  I  told  them  I  could  not  afford  to  pay  them 
the  wages  demanded  and  that  I  did  not  think  the  Sioux 
would  bother  us,  but  this  did  not  satisfy  them.  They  de- 
manded their  time  and  I  paid  them. 

Just  about  this  time,  3  :oo  p.  m.,  it  commenced  to  rain 
and  the  cattle  started  to  scatter.  Before  leaving  camp  to 
round  up  the  cattle  I  luckily  tied  up  an  extra  horse  to  the 
wagon.  It  was  just  getting  dark  when  I  returned  to  camp. 
The  rain  continued  falling.  I  changed  horses,  put  the  one  I 
had  been  riding  on  a  stake  rope,  then  went  to  the  cook  tent 
and  grub  box,  thinking  I  would  find  a  few  cold  biscuits, 
but  the  men  had  taken  all  the  cooked  food.  I  picked  up  a 
couple  of  ears  of  corn  and  put  them  in  my  saddle  pockets. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  state  that  I  had  a  hard  night's  ride.  The 
cattle  kept  drifting  until  I  got  them  in  a  bend  of  the  creek 
where  the  banks  were  steep.  Here  I  succeeded  in  holding 
them  in  spite  of  the  rain.     About  10:00  A.  M.  it  began  to 


Trails  of  Yesterday  177 

let  up.  I  headed  the  cattle  toward  camp  and  after  changing 
horses  again,  about  2:00  P.  M.  I  rode  to  Wood  River  station 
and  Jackson's  store,  where  I  succeeded  in  hiring  John  Smont 
and  other  men,  whom  I  brought  out  to  camp  on  extra  horses. 

Since  the  men  left  I  had  had  no  time  to  cook  anything.  My 
menu  had  been  the  raw  corn  off  of  several  cobs.  The  men 
I  had  just  hired  cooked  a  hasty  supper  consisting  of  biscuit, 
coffee  and  bacon,  which  I  enjoyed.  With  one  of  the  men, 
I  then  rounded  up  the  cattle  and  herded  them  half  the 
night,  when  we  were  relieved  by  the  other  two  men. 

It  was  while  holding  the  cattle  on  Prairie  Creek  one 
windy  night,  that  a  heavy  field  desk  lid,  which  I  had  set  up 
against  the  torn  corner  of  the  tent  to  break  the  wind,  fell  on 
my  forehead  while  I  was  asleep.  This  must  have  stunned  me, 
for  I  awakened  in  a  pool  of  blood.  The  iron-capped  lid  had 
struck  me  on  the  forehead,  which  scar  I  will  carry  as  long  as  I 
live. 

While  on  Prairie  Creek  another  little  accident,  which 
nearly  cost  me  my  life,  befell  me.  I  had  gone  to  Jackson's 
store  with  a  mule  team  to  get  provisions.  Wood  River  was 
high  and  going  over  one  part  of  the  bridge.  I  got  my 
supplies  and  started  back  to  find  the  water  apparently  about 
one  foot  deep  flowing  over  the  bridge.  I  thought  I  could 
get  across  and  touched  up  the  mules  with  my  whip.  Before 
I  realized  my  danger  my  mules,  the  wagon  and  I  plunged 
into  about  twelve  feet  of  flood  water.  I  cannot  tell  how  I  got 
out.  The  mules  were  drowned  and  the  wagon  recovered 
several  days  afterward,  but  the  supplies  had  sunk  into  the 
mud  or  been  carried  away  by  the  current.  Again  I  was 
reminded  of  that  "Guardian  Angel." 

At  this  time  there  were  no  settlers  on  Prairie  Creek  and 
many  of  those  on  Wood  River  had  left  on  account  of  Indian 
raids.  Some  had  gone  to  Grand  Island,  others  to  old  Fort 
Kearny,  or  "Dobytown."  Among  the  settlers  on  Wood 
River  I  remember,  besides  Jackson,  the  Olivers,  Lambertsons, 
Dugdales,  Charles  Walker  (whose  wife  many  called  Iron- 
sides), Pat  Walsh,  that  Prince  of  Democrats  who  used  to 


178  Trails  of  Yesterday 

take  pride  in  carrying  the  ballot  box  with  its  vote  to  Kearney. 
Some  one  stuffed  the  ballot  on  him  once  with  an  obnoxious 
ballot,  which  made  Mr.  Walsh  very  angry. 

I  could  mention  many  other  good  Wood  River  people 
with  whom  I  became  acquainted,  among  them  Otto  Legg  and 
Sol  Rickmond.  The  last  I  saw  of  Legg  was  when  he  bor- 
rowed some  funds  from  me  to  take  him  to  Kearney.  I  have 
not  seen  nor  heard  from  him  since. 

George  Williamson  and  the  McGees  had  claims  near 
mine.  The  former  was  a  hot-headed  fellow,  who  later 
killed  his  man  and  had  much  trouble  in  keeping  his  neck  out 
of  a  rope  loop  for  his  crime. 

Here  I  must  close  my  experience  with  the  cattle  wintered 
in  1869  and  spring  of  1870  at  Wood  River. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Life  as  a  Cattleman — The  Firm  of  John  Bratt  £ff  Co. — "Point  Look- 
out"— The  Home  Ranch — Trailing  Indian  Horse  and  Cattle 
Thieves — The  Cattleman's  Life  not  a  Picnic — Moderniz- 
ing the  Cattle  Business — Origin  of  the  Word 
"Maverick  " 

4  BOUT  June   10,   1870,  grass  became  good  enough  so 

/-%     the  cattle  could  live  and  hold  their  own  on  the  trail 

if  handled  on  easy  drives,  hence  I  started  my  little 

herd  of  invalid  cows  and  heifers,  many  of  which  had  calves 

by  their  sides,  necessitating  easy  drives. 

In  passing  Stevenson  Siding,  John  Long,  the  section  fore- 
man, bantered  me  for  a  trade  of  twenty  head  of  the  light  end 
of  the  herd,  mostly  yearling  heifers.  I  told  him  I  was  afraid 
he  was  not  fixed  to  handle  and  care  for  them  and  that  the 
cattle  were  Texas  cattle  and  somewhat  wild  when  people 
went  around  them  afoot,  but  he  said  he  knew  his  business 
and  had  quite  a  number  of  section  men  whom  he  could  use 
in  handling  and  herding  them.  I  hesitated  about  selling  him 
the  cattle  and  told  him  that  as  fast  as  the  yearlings  were  cut 
out  of  the  bunch  they  would  be  considered  his  property,  to 
which  he  agreed.  The  price  was  $22.00  each,  cash  as  soon 
as  cut  out.  John  had  six  section  men  employed  to  hold  the 
heifers  as  fast  as  cut  from  the  bunch.  They  simply  scared 
the  cattle  and  about  the  time  the  twentieth  had  been  cut  out, 
the  other  nineteen  had  disappeared  over  the  hills.  John 
began  to  realize  that  he  did  not  want  them  and  asked  me  to 
take  them  back.  I  could  find  only  nineteen  of  them.  Finally 
I  sold  him  an  apparently  good  milk  cow  with  a  young  calf  for 
$50.00.  I  left  Smont  at  the  section  house  that  night  to  hunt 
up  the  missing  yearling,  but  he  failed  to  find  her.  Strange  but 
true,  we  found  her  three  years  after  in  a  herd  of  cattle  on 
the  South  Loup.     She  had  a  calf  by  her  side. 

Smont,  on  his  overtaking  us,  told  about  John  Long's  ex- 

179 


180  Trails  of  Yesterday 

perience  with  the  milk  cow.  We  had  tied  the  calf  for  him,  but 
the  poor  mother  was  so  wild  and  scared  at  those  section  men 
chasing  her  afoot  that  she  was  much  inclined  to  abandon  her 
calf.  Long  got  up  at  peep  of  day,  thinking  he  would  be  able 
to  rope  the  cow  while  she  was  near  the  calf,  but  on  seeing  him 
and  the  men  she  made  for  the  hills.  Mrs.  Long  and  the 
little  Longs  had  anticipated  having  some  milk  for  breakfast 
and  asked  John  in  a  very  pleasant  way  if  he  had  "pailed"  the 
cow.  John  answered  rather  savagely,  "Pail  h — 1  and  dam- 
nation. You  might  as  well  try  to  pail  a  buffalo."  Smont 
finally  roped  the  cow  and  tied  her  up  near  the  calf  and  after 
throwing  her  down  a  few  times  she  reluctantly  consented  to 
be  milked.  We  often  did  this  to  break  Texas  cows  for 
milking. 

Several  calves  drowned  in  crossing  the  Platte  River,  which 
was  swimming  in  several  places.  Outside  of  this  we  got  the 
cattle  through  in  good  shape. 

Shortly  after  my  arrival  at  what  we  had  named  Fort 
McPherson  Herd  Camp,  according  to  prior  arrangements 
with  Isaac  Coe  and  Levi  Carter,  I  bought  out  John  Wait's 
interest  in  the  cattle,  numbering  several  thousand  head,  and  a 
co-partnership  was  formed  under  the  name  of  John  Bratt  & 
Co.  Wait  had  established  a  small  camp  in  one  of  the  deep 
pockets  of  the  short  canons  leading  on  to  what  was  called  the 
Burke  Flats,  a  little  east  of  what  was  known  as  "Point  Look- 
out" just  west  of  Moran  canon,  and  about  midway  between 
Fort  McPherson  and  North  Platte  City. 

I  could  write  a  chapter  about  this  particular  Point. 
Many  a  stage  coach,  freight  and  emigrant  train,  soldier  and 
cowboy  have  been  chased  and  shot  at,  and  some  captured  and 
killed  by  war  parties  of  the  Sioux  hiding  behind  "Point  Look- 
out," from  which  they  would  swoop  down  on  the  unsuspecting 
travelers  without  a  moment's  warning.  I  and  some  of  our 
cowboys  had  a  narrow  escape  from  capture  by  a  small  band 
of  Sioux,  who  came  charging  down  on  us  from  "Point  Look- 
out." They  did  their  best  to  cut  us  off.  While  on  our  way 
down  the  bottom  the  band  split,  part  going  in  front  and  part 


Trails  of  Yesterday  181 

behind  us.  We  saved  ourselves  by  dashing  into  the  brush  and 
fording  the  river.  One  of  our  line  riders,  William  Rix,  in 
disobeying  orders  "never  to  ride  the  same  line  twice  in  succes- 
sion," received  two  bullets  in  his  body,  one  going  through  him, 
the  other  lodging  near  his  backbone.  He  was  shot  by  Indians 
hiding  behind  "Point  Lookout."  Rix  recovered  and  finally 
went  to  Utah. 

Our  cattle  ranged  between  the  Platte  River,  Medicine  and 
Red  Willow  creeks,  west  of  Fort  McPherson  and  east  of 
O'Fallons'  Bluffs.     Our  ranch  brand  was  an  oblong  circle  on 


Our  Ranch  Brand 

the  left  hip  and  loin  and  ear  mark,  thus:    OO     Our  cattle 
were  known  among  cattle  men  as  the  "Circle  Herd." 

During  the  Fall  of  1870  we  commenced  building  what 
was  later  known  as  The  Home  Ranch  on  Section  13,  Town- 
ship 14  North,  Range  30,  just  north  of  the  old  Jack  Morrow 
Road  Ranch,  south  of  Fremont  slough,  being  about  four  miles 
southeast  of  North  Platte  City  and  about  fourteen  miles  west 
of  Fort  McPherson.  We  built  our  ranch  house  and  stables 
out  of  sod.  The  walls  of  the  ranch  house  were  four  to  six 
feet  thick  and  fitted  with  port  holes  to  enable  us  to  stand  off 
an  attack  by  Indians.     We  built  strong  corrals,  and  branding 


182 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


chutes,  out  of  cedar  logs  and  rails  and  fenced  in  Section  13, 
on  the  east,  south  and  west,  with  strong  cedar  mortised  posts 
and  red  cedar  rails,  four  rails  to  an  8-foot  pommel.  Many 
of  the  posts  are  standing  there  to-day,  the  10th  day  of  July, 
19 1 2,  forty-two  years,  as  sound  as  the  day  they  were  put  in 
the  ground.  At  this  time  the  canons  had  plenty  of  cedar 
trees  in  them  of  which  we  made  free  use. 

I  remember  we  moved  into  our  ranch  house,  with  its  sod 
and  dirt  roof  laid  on  cedar  rails,  on  Christmas  Day,  1870. 


The  Home  Ranch 

We  also  completed  our  stable  with  its  sod  walls  and  hay  roof. 
It  was  quite  a  relief  to  myself  and  men  when  we  had  a  rail 
pasture  to  turn  our  horses  into,  a  stable  in  which  we  could  tie 
a  couple  of  dozen  at  night  and  a  good  house  in  which  to 
protect  ourselves  from  Indian  attacks.  This  was  a  great  im- 
provement on  sleeping  out  around  our  horse  herd  in  the  open 
v/ith  a  lariat  fastened  around  a  saddle  horse's  neck  and  tied 
to  our  arms. 

Our    employees,    some    twenty    or    thirty,    were    mostly 


Trails  of  Yesterday  183 

Texans  or  Mexicans.  All  could  swing  a  lariat,  use  a  revolver 
or  ride  a  broncho,  but  understood  little  and  cared  less  about 
buildings  or  making  fence. 

The  many  little  thieving  bands  of  Sioux  and  Cheyenne 
Indians  kept  us  busy  before  we  finished  our  ranch,  corrals 
and  pasture.  They  would  take  a  sneak  on  us  and  drive  off 
a  few  horses  every  chance  they  got.  About  forty  Sioux  In- 
dians stole  up  on  us  one  dark  night  and  took  seventy-five 
head  of  horses  out  of  a  herd  of  one  hundred  twenty-five  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  some  twelve  herders  were  sleeping 
around  them  with  saddle  horses  tied  to  their  arms,  legs  or 
bodies.  In  the  stampede  some  of  the  men  were  dragged  a 
great  distance  over  the  prairie.  One  man's  arm  was  broken. 
As  soon  as  we  could  get  our  forces  together  I  had  the  men 
take  up  the  trail  while  I  went  to  Fort  McPherson  to  get  a 
squad  of  cavalry  to  help  us  follow  the  Indians.  Lieutenant 
Thomas,  a  brave  little  officer,  was  detailed  with  a  company 
of  cavalry  to  help  me  follow  the  Indians  with  the  stolen  stock. 
Buffalo  Bill  went  along  as  guide.  We  caught  up  with  our 
men  about  dark  near  the  head  of  Medicine  Creek.  They  had 
the  trail,  which  was  quite  fresh.  It  seemed  to  lead  to  the 
head  of  Red  Willow  Creek,  which  we  reached  a  little  before 
daylight.  At  break  of  day  we  saw  the  Indian  camp  and  some 
of  the  stolen  horses.  The  order  was  given  to  surround  the 
camp,  if  possible  unknown  to  the  Indians,  but  this  could  not 
be  done.  Many  of  the  Indians  had  laid  down  beside  their 
ponies,  the  loose  horses  apparently  grazing  in  the  center  of 
the  tired  and  sleeping  Indian  guard.  Before  we  had  sur- 
rounded them,  the  guards  were  aware  of  us  and  were  on  their 
ponies,  trying  to  stampede  the  loose  horses.  The  rough  lay 
of  the  country  aided  the  Indians  more  than  us,  but  it  was  not 
long  before  we  had  many  of  them  hemmed  in  a  "pocket," 
from  which  a  few  escaped. 

I  remember  one  incident  that  occurred  in  this  fight.  One 
of  our  men,  Gokey  by  name,  a  half-breed  Frenchman  with 
some  Indian  blood  in  him,  was  galloping  his  horse  alongside 
of  mine,  when  we  spied  an  Indian  trying  to  hide  behind  a  tree. 


184  Trails  of  Yesterday 

We  stopped.  Gokey  dismounted,  saying,  "I  shoot  you,  I 
shoot  you."  Old  Gokey  very  deliberately  took  aim  at  the 
Indian,  resting  his  gun  on  the  side  of  a  tree.  The  Indian  com- 
menced dodging.  Old  Gokey,  getting  "a  bead"  on  the  In- 
dian, pulled  the  trigger,  but  his  gun  failed  to  go  off.  He 
mounted  his  horse  in  disgust,  saying,  "I  believe  I  won't 
either."  The  Indian,  no  doubt,  was  pleased  but  not  for  long, 
since  a  ball  coming  from  another  direction,  soon  sent  him  to 
join  his  thieving  comrades. 

Enough  to  say,  the  fight  lasted  about  two  hours.  We 
took  no  prisoners  and  not  many  Indians  escaped.  We  brought 
in  all  of  the  horses  and  ponies  that  were  not  killed  or  crippled, 
except  some  that  a  few  of  the  Indians  got.  One  of  our  men 
was  killed  and  four  wounded.  The  papers  that  loved  the 
Indian  better  than  the  honest  settler  and  brave  soldier,  who 
were  always  ready  to  do  or  die,  styled  this  Indian  fight  a 
needless  butchery  and  brave,  gallant  Lieutenant  Thomas  was 
courtmartialed.  Scout  and  Guide  W.  F.  Cody,  not  as  well 
known  as  he  was  later,  did  good  work  in  this  fight.  We 
recovered  most  of  the  horses.  The  Indians  let  us  alone  for 
a  few  days  after  this  "drubbing,"  when  they  came  and  took 
a  few  more  of  our  horses,  shot  our  lineman  twice  through  the 
body  and  stampeded  the  Government  herd  of  horses  and 
mules  at  Fort  McPherson. 

While  these  roving,  thieving  little  bands  of  Sioux  Indians 
were  bad  and  committed  many  depredations,  yet  the  Sioux 
Indians,  as  a  nation,  were  not  at  war  with  the  whites.  Spotted 
Tail,  the  great  Sioux  Chief,  was  keeping  his  word.  He 
promised  his  daughter  before  she  died  of  a  broken  heart  at 
Fort  Laramie  that  he  would  never  go  to  war  against  the 
whites  again.  He  exacted  this  promise  from  many  of  his  sub- 
chiefs  and  later  from  Red  Cloud.  Some  of  these  Sioux 
Chiefs,  especially  Spotted  Tail  and  his  followers,  would  often 
come  to  our  Home  Ranch  and  stay  a  couple  of  days  on  their 
way  to  and  from  their  buffalo  hunts  on  the  Republican  River 
and  its  tributaries.  On  these  occasions  we  would  make  them 
a  feast,  killing  a  couple  or  more  "beeves,"  give  them  flour, 


Trails  of  Yesterday  185 

sugar,  coffee,  syrup  and  beans,  and  if  winter,  hay  for  their 
ponies.  They  were  familiar  with  our  brands  and  ear  marks, 
both  on  cattle  and  horses.  I  had  a  list  of  brands  and  many 
times  animals  would  be  recovered  and  returned  to  proper 
owners  by  this  friendly  cooperation. 

Spotted  Tail  showed  his  honesty  and  good  will  toward 
us  many  times  by  telling  us  where  certain  bunches  of  our  cattle 
were.  He  and  other  Sioux  Indians,  in  the  spring  of  1872, 
told  us  where  we  would  find  the  remains  of  several  hundred 
cattle  that  had  been  needlessly  butchered  by  several  little  war 
parties  of  Sioux  Indians,  all  because  they  did  not  happen  to 
run  across  any  buffalo.  Some  of  our  men  and  I  went  over 
in  the  country  indicated  by  Spotted  Tail's  band  and  found  the 
carcases  of  nearly  four  hundred  cattle  that  had  been  killed, 
not  for  the  meat  but  for  pure,  unadulterated  meanness.  We 
found  scores  with  their  tongues  cut  out,  many  others  killed 
for  the  sinew,  some  for  their  hearts,  others  for  their  brains 
and  many  had  just  a  little  meat  taken  from  the  loins.  These 
animals  had  been  in  good  condition.  We  were  out  several 
weeks,  getting  at  the  facts,  numbers,  sex,  ages  and  value  and 
found  our  claim  footed  up  to  nearly  $13,000.00,  for  which 
we  put  in  a  claim  to  the  Government.  This  was  scaled  down 
some  and  then  paid,  when  unprincipled  squaw  men  went  to 
the  chiefs  of  these  thieving  bands  and  told  them  that 
the  Government,  the  "Great  Father,"  was  going  to  deduct 
these  claims  from  their  annuities  and  that  they  could  get  out 
of  paying  for  the  cattle  by  saying  they  did  not  kill  them. 
These  lies  were  put  in  form  by  unscrupulous  agents  and 
others  to  cover  their  negligence  in  allowing  the  thieving 
bands  of  Indians  to  leave  their  reservations.  The  Indians 
being  promised  that  the  money  paid  us  for  these  cattle 
would  be  given  to  them,  persuaded  many  of  these  Indians  to 
tell  the  basest  falsehoods,  on  the  strength  of  which,  though 
we  had  several  hundred  Indians  testify  to  seeing  these  cattle 
after  they  were  killed  by  the  marauding  bands,  we  were 
compelled  to  pay  back  a  part  of  this  already  scaled-down, 
just  claim  to  the  Government — all  this  after  our  kindness 


186  Trails  of  Yesterday 

to  these  untruthful  Indians  and  to  many  who  took  pleasure 
in  raiding  us  and  destroying  our  property.  We  were  thus 
defrauded  of  several  thousand  dollars  justly  and  honestly 
due  us  and  made  to  appear  in  the  light  of  cheating  the  poor 
Indians.  Spotted  Tail  and  other  noted  chiefs,  acquainted 
with  the  facts,  always  said  that  we  were  cheated  out  of  our 
rights. 

The  life  of  the  cattle  man  in  the  days  from  1867  to 
1889  was  anything  but  a  Sunday-school  picnic.  We  drove 
up  many  herds  from  Texas  to  our  range  in  Nebraska,  the 
first  herd  going  to  Wyoming,  where  I  built  the  ranch  in  1867, 
near  what  was  later  called  Wyoming  Station.  The  Texas 
cattle  breeder  had  no  use  for  the  money  of  the  Northern 
people,  the  greenback.  They  insisted  that  we  pay  for  the 
cattle  in  gold,  and  to  get  the  gold  there  safely  was  a  difficult 
problem.  We  would  carry  all  we  could  in  belts  around  our 
bodies  under  our  heavy  shirts.  We  made  double  bottoms 
to  our  wagon  beds  and  carried  much  of  it  there.  We  usually 
took  a  few  picked  men  with  us — men  that  we  could  rely  on 
in  any  emergency.  Some  of  these  did  not  know  where  we 
carried  our  money.  After  a  few  drives  we  became  better 
known  to  the  Texas  cattle  growers  and  once  gaining  their 
confidence,  the  task  of  dealing  with  them  was  easier.  Later 
herds  would  be  counted  out  to  us — so  many  yearling  heifers, 
so  many  yearling  steers,  two-year  old  heifers,  two-year  old 
steers,  so  many  dry  cows,  so  many  cows  with  calves  by  their 
sides,  so  many  three-year  old  and  so  many  four-year  old  and 
upward  steers,  so  many  males  at  so  much  per  head  for  each 
class,  or  the  total  number  at  a  stated  sum  for  the  average, 
nothing  under  yearlings  counted.  These  herds  would 
average  in  cost,  during  the  years  1867  to  1895,  all  the  way 
from  $5.00  per  head  to  $20.00  on  the  Texas  ranches.  It 
would  cost  from  $1.00  to  $2.50  per  head  to  trail  the  cattle 
from  Texas  to  "Dobytown"  (old  Fort  Kearny),  Fort 
McPherson  or  Ogallala,  Nebraska.  The  cost  would  depend 
on  what  luck  we  had  in  getting  the  herds  off  their  breeding 
grounds,  what  number  of  bad  white  men,   Mexicans,  half- 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


187 


CO 


188  Trails  of  Yesterday 

breeds  and  Indians  were  encountered  on  the  trail,  whether 
feed  and  water  were  plentiful,  the  number  of  stampedes,  the 
luck  in  crossing  swollen  streams,  and  last  but  not  least,  the 
number  of  good,  reliable,  trusty  employees  we  happened  to 
have.  No  matter  how  careful  in  this  we  would  frequently 
hire  a  man,  who,  unknown  to  us,  had  killed  his  man,  and  with 
chips  on  both  shoulders  was  always  ready  to  drop  another 
on  the  least  provocation.  In  the  early  days  it  was  hard  to 
get  one  who  did  not  drink,  gamble  and  swear.  It  took 
courage  and  some  good  judgment  to  handle  and  get  along 
with  them. 

We  would  drive  herds  of  fifteen  hundred  to  twenty-five 
hundred  head  in  a  bunch,  usually  requiring  ten  to  fifteen  men, 
who  would  have  from  five  to  seven  horses  each.  The  cook 
would  drive  the  mess  wagon,  usually  pulled  by  two  to  five 
yoke  of  cattle.  In  a  big  outfit  there  would  be  two  or  more 
horse  wranglers  for  night  and  day  service. 

With  an  exclusive  steer  herd  the  greatest  caution  would 
have  to  be  taken  to  avoid  stampedes.  The  approach  of  a 
pack  of  wolves,  coyotes,  elk,  deer,  buffalo  or  other  game,  all 
of  which  were  plentiful  in  those  days,  would  jump  a  sleeping 
herd  to  its  feet  in  an  instant  and  if  the  night  herders  did  not 
know  their  duty  and  act  promptly  to  sooth  and  pacify  the 
frightened  animals,  a  stampede  would  be  certain.  A  small 
band  of  Indians  or  desperate  white  men  could  and  did  some- 
times turn  in  an  instant  a  docile,  sleeping  herd  into  enraged, 
maddened,  crazy  animals,  that,  once  started  on  a  run  or 
stampede,  would  sound  like  the  noise  of  a  cyclone  or  tornado. 
The  bellowing  of  the  cattle,  the  knocking  of  horns,  the  pound- 
ing hoofs  that  seem  to  make  the  earth  tremble,  caution  the 
experienced  cowman  to  get  quickly  out  of  the  way  and  on 
the  outside  of  the  stampeding  cattle,  which  he  begins  to 
circle  around  and  around,  thus  changing  the  straight  course 
into  a  milling  whirlpool;  and  after  a  ride  for  life,  all  the 
while  singing  some  soothing  song,  he  and  his  fellow  herders,  if 
not  thrown  by  their  horses  stepping  into  some  prairie  dog,  wolf 
or  badger  hole,  finally  get  the  herd  stopped,  if  not  quieted. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  189 

As  a  rule,  after  such  scares  and  stampedes,  the  cattle  continue 
to  be  excited  and  restless  the  balance  of  the  night  and  some- 
times for  many  days  and  nights  thereafter.  After  a  stampede 
the  cattle  were  usually  counted  the  following  morning  and 
if  any  were  missing,  several  herders  were  detailed  to  scout  the 
country  and  adjacent  herds  (if  any)  and  to  bring  back  the 
missing  cattle,  which  were  picked  up  on  either  the  ranch 
brand  described  in  the  bill  of  sale  or  the  road  brand.  We 
found  it  good  judgment  to  put  a  road  brand  on  all  herds  we 
bought — some  plain  letter  or  figure — even  if  only  a  dim  or 
hair  brand,  as  it  was  usually  called.  I  know  of  cases  where 
coast  or  brush  steers  have  traveled  forty  miles  or  more  in  one 
night  in  a  stampede  and  were  it  not  for  the  road  or  trail 
brand  we  could  never  have  recovered  them,  for  they  would 
have  gone  back  to  the  same  range  where  they  were  bought. 

Another  grief  to  sometimes  try  the  herders'  nerves  and 
rob  the  venture  of  considerable  profit  would  be  the  crossing 
of  swollen  creeks  and  rivers.  To  do  this  without  loss  re- 
quired nerve  and  good  judgment.  The  most  experienced 
men  would  be  placed  on  both  sides  of  the" cattle,  well  up 
toward  the  lead  and,  once  in  the  river,  these  men  would  do 
the  pointing,  while  others  behind  would  keep  the  swing  cattle 
moving,  following  the  lead  of  the  herd.  Other  herders 
would  gently  keep  the  tail  of  the  herd  moving  along  so 
there  would  be  no  gaps  or  chance  to  break  back.  All  should 
be  done  without  hurrying  the  cattle  or  exciting  them,  or  the 
horses  in  the  least.  A  herd  of  cattle,  excited  or  frightened 
in  crossing  a  swollen  stream,  will  usually  go  to  milling  with 
the  result  that  some  are  drowned.  Experienced  cowboys  well 
know  how  to  stop  this  milling  by  riding  into  and  breaking 
the  whirl  and  getting  the  cattle  strung  out  again. 

In  crossing  some  rivers  quicksand  is  encountered  and 
always  dreaded.  Many  a  cow  and  horse  have  lost  their  lives 
in  this.  I  have  seen  horses  with  their  riders  almost  disappear 
and  have  to  be  pulled  out  with  ropes. 

The  most  treacherous  river  I  ever  crossed  on  horseback 
was  the  Snake  River  near  Shoshone  Falls  in  Idaho.  We  rode 


190  Trails  of  Yesterday 

into  it,  seeing  the  bottom  of  the  river,  when  in  an  instant  we 
disappeared  in  water  fifty  to  nearly  two  hundred  feet  deep, 
to  be  almost  sucked  under  in  a  blind  whirlpool. 

One  time  in  crossing  the  Red  River  on  the  Texas  Trail 
with  a  herd  of  cattle,  General  Coe  discharged  two  of  his  old 
foremen,  Mate  Brooks  and  John  Knox,  because  they  refused 
to  swim  it  prior  to  crossing  the  cattle.  The  General  wanted 
to  see  what  kind  of  a  "getting  out"  place  it  was. 

It  was  on  this  drive  and  on  the  banks  of  this  river  that 
a  couple  of  herders  came  into  camp  for  dinner  and  complained 
about  there  being  no  clean  plates,  cups,  knives,  forks  and 
spoons.  Just  then  the  General  stepped  into  camp,  and  after 
learning  the  trouble,  picked  up  every  plate,  cup,  knife,  fork 
and  spoon  and  dumped  them  into  the  river,  telling  the  men 
they  could  get  along  without  those  luxuries,  and  they  did 
until  the  next  store  was  reached,  when  each  herder  bought, 
used  and  kept  his  own. 

Another  arbitrary  and  very  important,  fearless  fellow 
that  we  had  to  contend  with  was  the  brand  inspector  of  some 
of  the  different  counties  the  Texas  Trail  went  through.  Some 
of  them  were  satisfied  to  be  fed  and  would  pass  the  herd  easy 
and  allow  it  to  proceed  without  delay.  Others,  more  mean 
and  exacting,  would  hold  up  the  cattle  for  all  they  could  get, 
delay  the  moving  for  several  days  under  the  pretense  that 
some  of  the  brands  were  not  plain  and  distinct.  Some  met 
their  death  in  this  game  of  bluff.  As  a  rule  there  was  always 
a  match  for  this  kind  of  a  fellow. 

Life  on  the  Chislom  Trail,  beset  with  dangers  on  all  sides, 
was  a  hard  one.  The  herds  would  usually  make  two  drives  a 
day  of  seven  to  eight  miles  each,  depending  on  the  condition  of 
the  cattle  and  whether  there  was  sufficient  grass  and  water. 
In  later  years,  on  account  of  many  herds  being  driven  up 
from  Texas  to  the  Northern  States,  feed  became  very  short 
late  in  the  season,  resulting  in  many  thin  herds  arriving  and 
consequent  losses  during  the  hard  Nebraska,  Colorado  and 
Wyoming  winters.     Methods  changed  as  the  years  went  by. 

Instead  of  taking  our  gold  with  us  in  our  belts  or  false 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


191 


wagon  boxes,  as  we  had  done,  we  would  take  part  in  gold 
and  exchange  on  St.  Louis,  Kansas  City  or  New  York  for 
the  balance  of  the  purchase  price  of  the  cattle.  Later  the 
owner  of  the  cattle,  or  some  relative,  would  come  up  the  trail 
with  us  and  take  the  pay  for  the  cattle  in  Eastern  exchange 
back  with  them.  Getting  better  acquainted  with  the  Northern 
cattlemen,  the  Texas  cattle  raiser  began  to  drive  his  own  herd 
to  Aberdeen  and  other  points  in  Kansas  and  later  to  Ogallala 
and  other  points  along  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad  in  Ne- 
braska, Colorado  and  Wyoming. 


On  the  Texas  Trail 

Among  these  Texas  drivers,  whole-souled  and  big- 
hearted,  could  be  mentioned  Millet  and  Mayberry,  Faut, 
Prior  Brothers  and  Uncle  Billy  Stevens.  They  were  the  soul 
of  honor  and  their  statements  never  questioned. 

Among  the  pioneer  ranchmen  in  Nebraska,  besides  us, 
were  Keith  &  Barton,  Bent  &  Evans,  Edward  Creighton, 
who  had  cattle  interests  in  Wyoming,  Ed.  Welch,  Ben  Gal- 
lagher, Russell  Watts,  John  Burke,  Sr.,  Major  Walker,  W. 
A.  Paxton,  Bosler  Bros.,  Sheidley  Bros.,  Iliff,  Fussier  Bros., 
Bay  State  Cattle  Co.,  Ira  Nichols,  and  many  others  who  em- 
barked in  the  business.  The  first  cattle  queen  near  North 
Platte  was  Mrs.  Randall,  later  Mrs.  Ritner.  Then  came  a 
host  of  small  cattle  ranches.     All  prospered  and  did  fairly 


192  Trails  of  Yesterday 

well  in  the  business  until  hard  winters  and  lack  of  feed  hit 
some  herds  hard. 

Our  range  at  this  time,  1870  to  1873,  was  from  the 
Platte  River  to  the  Republican  and  from  Fort  McPherson  on 
the  east  to  Fort  Sedgwick  on  the  west.  The  main  ranch  was 
what  we  called  the  "Home  Ranch,"  about  four  miles  south- 
east of  North  Platte.  We  had  a  number  of  ranches  and 
camps  on  the  outside,  one  at  Fox  Creek,  one  at  the  mouth  of 
Curtis  Creek,  one  at  the  head  of  the  Medicine  and  Red  Wil- 
low creeks,  another  near  Bishop's  old  ranch  and  one  near 
O'Fallons'  Bluffs.  Some  of  these  were  temporary  camps  and 
used  only  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year  or  in  cases  of  emer- 
gency. We  ranged  from  ten  thousand  to  fifteen  thousand 
cattle  at  times  and  about  one  thousand  horses  and  mares, 
branding  three  thousand  to  five  thousand  calves  and  two 
hundred  to  three  hundred  colts  a  year. 

My  life  was  a  very  busy  one,  full  of  hardships,  sleeping 
wherever  night  overtook  me — sometimes  in  a  ranch  but  often 
in  the  open  with  my  saddle  for  a  pillow  and  slicker  and  saddle 
blanket  for  my  bed. 

We  filled  the  beef  contracts  at  Fort  McPherson  for  over 
twelve  years,  the  North  Platte  garrison  for  several  years, 
besides  several  temporary  contracts,  to  two-company  camps 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Red  Willow  Creek,  also  other  places 
where  troops  were  stationed  to  keep  the  Indians  in  check. 
We  also  filled  several  Indian  contracts  for  beef  and  breeding 
cattle  at  the  Rosebud  and  the  Pine  Ridge  Indian  Agencies 
and  operated  a  meat  market  at  North  Platte. 

These  side  lines — keeping  track  of  our  cattle  and  horses, 
as  well  as  bunches  of  thieving  Indians  and  whites,  fighting 
prairie  fires,  following  trail  herds  through  our  ranges,  going 
on  round-ups,  branding  calves,  shipping  "beeves"  and  dry 
cows,  putting  up  ten  thousand  to  twelve  thousand  tons  of 
hay  annually,  building  ranches  and  corrals,  kept  me  and  our 
employees  rather  busy. 

I  had  to  deal  with  all  classes  of  men  from  the  "goody- 


Trails  of  Yesterday  193 

goody"  fellow  (not  many  of  these),  to  the  horse  thief,  des- 
perado and  general,  all-round  bad  man.  It  was  hard  to  keep 
them  in  the  straight  and  narrow  path.  I  tried  to  set  them  a 
good  example  and  encouraged  them  to  quit  their  bad  habits 
of  gambling,  drinking,  and  swearing.  I  was  kind  to  them 
but  firm,  and  insisted  that  all  orders  be  carried  out.  I  en- 
couraged them  to  save  their  money  and  to  be  honest  with 
each  other.  We  supplied  the  different  ranches  with  good, 
wholesome  reading  matter  and  each  ranch  had  its  Bible.  If 
an  employee  could  not  be  braced  up  and  taught  the  better  way 
after  a  fair  trial,  I  would  finally  let  him  go,  rather  than 
quarrel  with  him.  When  hired  I  would  always  tell  him  what 
his  duties  would  be  and  that  any  time  when  he  found  he  could 
not  discharge  them  faithfully,  not  to  be  afraid  to  tell  me,  and 
if  we  could  not  come  to  a  mutual  understanding  we  would 
part  friendly  if  possible.  In  event  of  injury  or  sickness  of 
any  employee  we  would  see  that  he  received  the  best  medical 
care  and  proper  nursing  until  well.  Up  to  1880  each  em- 
ployee carried  his  gun  or  revolver  with  plenty  of  ammunition 
if  going  on  long  trips,  also  bowie  knife  and  field  glasses,  as 
a  protection  against  roving  bands  of  thieving  Indians  and 
wolves,  and  to  supply  the  camps  with  game.  Such  was  the 
custom,  and  to  discontinue  it  the  writer  had  to  use  much  will 
power,  especially  when  going  on  round-ups,  but  we  finally 
discarded  our  weapons. 

The  ranch  or  stock  business  grew  rapidly  and  many 
people  engaged  in  it,  even  women.  I  refer  to  Mrs.  Randall, 
widow  of  Ex-Governor  and  Postmaster  General  Randall, 
later  Mrs.  Ritner,  a  very  intelligent  lady. 

The  cattle  business  was  not,  as  many  expected,  all  profit. 
Hard  winters  and  prairie  fires  would  scatter  the  cattle  and 
entail  much  loss  where  the  hay  was  scarce.  Some  cattlemen 
did  not  put  up  any  hay,  and  of  course  these  lost  heavily. 
Again  herds  passing  through  the  range  would  often  take  some 
of  our  cattle  along,  mixing  during  the  night,  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  we  had  cowboys  go  through  and  camp  with  these 


194  Trails  of  Yesterday 

outfits.  Yet  in  spite  of  this  care  and  diligence  we  would 
occasionally  hear  of  some  of  our  cattle  or  horses  being  dis- 
covered in  Wyoming,  Colorado  or  Dakota. 

Later  came  stock  associations.  I  was  elected  President 
of  the  first  stock  association  formed  in  Lincoln  County.  Other 
counties  and  Western  states  soon  followed  in  organizing,  and 
in  a  few  years  we  had  a  good  working  mutual  system.  Brand 
books  were  published,  giving  a  list  of  recorded  brands  and 
marks  on  cattle  and  horses  in  each  state.  Better  stock  laws 
were  put  on  our  statute  books.  Round-up  districts  were 
formed.  Date  and  place  of  starting  and  rules  governing 
same  were  published  in  the  different  stock  papers.  Annual 
meetings  were  held  at  different  places  in  the  different  states. 
At  these  meetings  all  topics  governing  or  pertaining  to  the 
stock  industry  were  freely  discussed.  Many  stock  growers 
attended  these  gatherings  and  took  great  interest  in  them. 
Brand  inspectors  were  appointed  to  watch  the  different  ship- 
ping points  and  run  down  cattle  and  horse  thieves,  commonly 
called  "rustlers."  We  had  an  executive  committee  that 
would  think  nothing  of  following  a  bunch  of  cattle  or  horse 
thieves  through  every  state  of  the  Union  and  into  old  Mexico 
or  farther.  This  vigorous  policy  broke  up  many  of  the  gangs, 
but  constant  vigilance  was  necessary.  What  was  done  created 
a  better  feeling  among  stockmen  generally.  The  ranchman 
who  had  adopted  the  brand  B  4  was  no  longer  afraid  of  his 
neighbor's  adding  the  letter  U  to  his  animal.  At  the  same 
time  we  had  to  be  always  on  the  watch. 

Just  before  beginning  a  round-up  on  the  east  end  of  our 
range  on  the  Birdwood,  I  caught  one  of  my  neighbors  driving 
off  our  range  to  his  own  a  bunch  of  about  five  hundred  mixed 
cattle,  for  the  purpose  of  securing  the  unbranded  calves,  or 
mavericks,  in  the  bunch.  I  was  surprised  and  angry  at  his 
doing  this  and  told  him  so.  I  gave  him  a  severe  quirting  for 
about  a  mile  and  then  took  the  cattle  back  to  our  own  range 
west  of  the  Birdwood.  The  man  did  not  return  the  next  day, 
but  his  brother  did  with  a  Winchester  rifle,  threatening  to 
kill  me.     I  told  him  these  things  did  not  scare  me,  and  that  I 


Trails  of  Yesterday  195 

would  serve  him  the  same  if  I  ever  caught  him  doing  the  same 
dishonorable  trick. 

For  the  information  of  the  reader  I  will  here  explain  the 
word  "maverick." 

In  the  early  history  of  western  Texas,  in  the  forties,  there 
lived  a  shrewd,  far-seeing,  business  man  named  Samuel  Mav- 
erick, whose  ambition  was  to  be  able  to  travel  from  San 
Antonio  to  El  Paso  and  from  El  Paso  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Rio  Grande  on  his  own  land,  and  at  one  time  it  seemed  his 
dream  would  be  realized  for  he  secured  title  to  two  million 
acres  of  this  land.  A  part  of  this  passed  out  of  his  hands 
before  he  died.  The  remainder  was  willed  to  his  wife  and  by 
her  to  their  grandchildren,  some  of  whom  are  now  living  near 
El  Paso,  Texas. 

Once  upon  a  time  Samuel  Maverick  had  a  debt  against 
a  stockman  which  he  could  not  collect,  so  he  accepted  four 
hundred  cattle  at  $3.00  per  head  in  full  for  all  demands.  He 
placed  a  trusted  negro  in  charge  of  the  stock  and  paid  no 
further  attention  to  the  cattle.  At  the  end  of  four  years  he 
sold  the  original  cattle  at  $6.00  per  head  but  did  not  take  into 
consideration  the  natural  increase.  He  had  branded  none  of 
the  calves  and  the  consequence  was  that  there  were  on  the 
range  a  large  number  of  unbranded  cattle.  Therefore,  when 
stockmen  came  across  unbranded  animals,  they  would  say 
they  belonged  to  Maverick  or  they  are  Maverick's.  This  is 
how  the  work  "maverick"  originated  and  began  to  be  applied 
by  cowboys  and  stockmen  to  all  unbranded  stock. 

During  the  early  round-ups  it  was  no  uncommon  thing 
to  have  a  killing,  either  of  a  stock  owner  or  cowboy.  Shoot- 
ing at  each  other  on  the  least  provocation  was  common  and 
more  than  once  have  I  seen  a  good  fist  fight.  I  remember 
Mr.  Iliff  (one  of  the  old  pioneer  cattlemen  whose  range  was 
in  western  Nebraska  and  eastern  Colorado  and  Wyoming) 
had  a  fistic  encounter  with  a  cowboy  who  gave  him  the  worst 
of  it  and  in  order  to  prevent  his  eyes  from  getting  black  from 
the  punishment  received  from  the  cowboy,  a  young  steer  was 
killed  and  some  thin  slices  of  beef  plastered  over  both  eyes, 


196  Trails  of  Yesterday 

which,  however,  did  not  prevent  the  flesh  above  and  below  the 
eyes  from  becoming  badly  discolored. 

I  happened  to  see  this  fight.  Both  men  were  game, 
fought  hard  and  asked  no  favors.  At  the  end  of  the  fight 
Mr.  Iliff  shook  hands  with  the  cowboy,  told  him  it  was  all 
right  and  that  he  had  no  hard  feelings  against  him. 

Mr.  Iliff  accumulated  a  great  deal  of  wealth  in  the  cattle- 
growing  business.  In  addition  to  his  large  cattle  interests  he 
operated  a  large  meat  market  in  Cheyenne.  He  shipped  a 
great  deal  of  fresh  meat  by  the  carcass  to  section  houses  and 
grading,  tie  and  wood  camps  east  and  west  on  the  Union 
Pacific  Railroad. 

Mr.  Iliff  died  many  years  ago,  leaving  Mrs.  Iliff  rich. 
Some  years  afterward,  being  a  great  worker  in  the  Methodist 
church,  she  married  Bishop  Warren  of  Colorado. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

The  Round-Up — Initiating  the  Tenderfoot — Dangers  of  the  Cowboy 
— Organization  and  Management — Tribute  to  the  Cowboy 

A  ROUND-UP  as  conducted  in  these  days  was  quite  inter- 
esting. The  time  and  place  of  starting  the  round-up 
for  the  different  sections  of  range  country  having  been 
agreed  upon  at  the  annual  meetings  of  the  different  stock  as- 
sociations held  in  Nebraska,  Wyoming,  Colorado,  Montana, 
and  in  other  stock-growing  states  and  territories,  the  owners 
would  send  their  outfits,  or  representatives,  to  meet  at  a  cer- 
tain time  and  place.  The  route  was  mapped  out  and 
thoroughly  worked  so  all  owners  would  get  what  stock  be- 
longed to  them,  the  brands  and  marks  on  the  animals  being 
prima-facie  evidence  of  ownership.  If  an  animal  was  not 
branded  or  ear  marked,  it  was  known  as  a  "maverick"  and 
properly  claimed  by  the  owner  of  the  cattle  belonging  to  the 
range  being  rounded  up.  The  owner  of  the  cattle  on  said 
range,  if  competent,  would  be  expected  to  act  as  superinten- 
dent of  the  round-up  and  boss  the  work. 

The  spring  round-up  would  usually  commence  between  the 
15th  and  30th  of  May,  and  the  fall  round-up  about  the 
10th  to  15th  of  September,  at  or  near  the  east  line  of  our 
range,  commencing  on  the  Dismal  River,  thence  west  through 
the  Lake  country  south  of  Hyannis,  thence  south,  taking  in 
the  West  and  East  Birdwood  creeks,  to  the  north  bank  of  the 
North  Platte  River.  At  the  mouth  of  the  Birdwood  Creek 
we  would  be  joined  by  small  representatives  who  had  worked 
the  cattle  country  on  the  South  Loup  and  down  the  Platte 
River  as  far  east  as  Brady.  Other  outfits  would  commence 
work  at  the  forks  of  the  Platte  River,  working  west  between 
the  rivers,  while  still  others  would  commence  rounding  up 
the  cattle  as  far  east  as  Plum  Creek,  working  the  cattle  country 
west  on  the  south  side  of  the  South  Platte  River.  Small 
parties  would  take  in  the  range  country  as  far  south  as  the 

197 


198  Trails  of  Yesterday 

Medicine  and  Red  Willow  creeks  and  other  outfits  would 
cover  the  range  country  tributary  to  the  Republican  River. 
So  that  nearly  every  mile  of  the  range  country  would  be 
ridden  and  all  cattle  grazing  on  these  different  ranges  would 
be  rounded  up  and  all  cattle  or  horses  bearing  other  owners' 
brands  would  be  gathered  up  and  if  not  too  many  in  number, 
would  be  thrown  in  a  joint  herd  and  moved  on  with  the 
round-up,  until  they  reached  the  range  where  they  belonged, 
when  they  would  be  separated  from  the  other  animals  and  left. 


Initiating  the  Tenderfoot 

As  a  rule,  I  would  be  chosen  superintendent  to  boss  our 
range  and  usually  was  asked  to  boss  the  round-up  through 
adjoining  ranges. 

It  was  no  easy  job  to  handle  two  hundred  or  more  cow- 
boys with  nearly  a  dozen  different  outfits  and  one  thousand 
to  twelve  hundred  horses,  keep  the  work  moving  intelli- 
gently, find  camping  places  for  each  outfit  and  see  that  all, 
even  the  lone  representative,  had  an  equal  show  and  a  square 
deal,  but  I  had  the  reputation  of  doing  it.  It  was  difficult 
to  secure  sufficient  experienced  cowboys  for  these  round-ups 
and  we  often  had  to  fill  in  with  what  were  termed  "tender- 
feet." 


Trails  of  Yesterday  199 

For  these  the  older  experienced  cowmen  would  usually 
have  something  in  cold  storage  that  would,  as  a  rule,  take  the 
conceit  out  of  them.  Should  he  make  the  remark  that  he 
could  ride  anything,  he  would  be  given  the  chance  to  ride  the 
worst  bucking  outlaw  horse  in  the  bunch.  If  he  stayed  in  his 
saddle  his  fellow  cowboys  would  show  him  more  respect  but 
should  he  "pull  leather"  or  get  thrown,  the  cowmen  and 
cowboys  would  joke  and  ridicule  him  unmercifully.  When 
these  practical  jokes  would  be  carried  too  far  I  would  inter- 
fere and  protect  him.  With  sympathy  and  encouragement 
I  have  seen  some  of  these  timid  tenderfeet  turn  out  to  be  some 
of  the  best  riders,  ropers  and  expert  cattlemen  in  the  outfit. 

The  life  of  the  cowboy,  especially  on  these  round-ups, 
was  a  hard  one  and  full  of  perils.  The  percentage  of  deaths 
and  disability  on  the  range  at  this  time  was  said  to  be  greater 
than  in  a  military  campaign.  He  had  to  conquer  the  "out- 
law" and  vicious  broncho;  the  pitfalls  of  the  plains — prairie 
dog,  wolf  and  badger  holes — were  often  in  his  track;  he  swam 
swollen  rivers,  crossed  wash-outs  and  quicksand,  stopped  the 
mad  rush  of  stampeding  herds,  faced  pelting  rains  accom- 
panied by  terrible  thunderstorms,  the  bolts  of  lightning 
often  killing  cattle  in  the  bunches  he  was  herding.  No  wonder 
he  suffered  the  pangs  of  rheumatism  brought  on  by  excessive 
rough-riding  and  too  much  sleeping  on  round-ups  (generally 
about  four  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four),  under  the  stars  in 
all  kinds  of  weather  with  sometimes  nothing  but  his  slicker 
and  saddle  blanket  to  cover  him. 

Still  there  was  always  enough  splash  of  adventure  in  the 
life  to  lend  it  a  charm.  He  was  paid  $35.00  to  $45.00  per 
month  and  furnished  with  board  and  outfit.  He  would  be 
supplied  with  five  to  eight  horses,  depending  on  the  class  and 
condition  of  the  animals  and  the  lay  and  character  of  the 
country  to  be  worked. 

The  round-up  crew  consisted  of  a  foreman,  a  cook,  a 
horse  wrangler  for  day  and  another  for  night  herd,  and  as 
many  cowboys  as  the  occasion  demanded.     The  foreman's 


200  Trails  of  Yesterday 

authority  was  absolute.  The  cowman  or  cowboy  must  obey 
his  orders  in  all  matters  or  quit.  The  horse  wranglers  had 
charge  of  the  band  of  cow  ponies  that  accompanied  each  out- 
fit on  a  round-up. 

After  the  night  herder  had  brought  the  horses  at  peep 
of  day  into  the  rope  corral  (formed  by  ropes  tied  to  the 
hind  and  front  wheels  of  the  mess  wagons)  he  was  supposed 
to  hold  them  there  until  all  the  cowmen  present  had  selected 
their  mounts  and  a  change  of  horses  for  all  the  other  cowmen 
who  might  be  out  with  the  cattle.  These  herders  were  re- 
lieved by  others  who  had  had  breakfast,  when  the  day 
wrangler  took  charge  of  the  horse  herd,  letting  it  graze  on 
the  best  feed  near  camp  until  the  mess  wagons  were  ready 
to  move,  when  the  horse  herd  was  moved  behind  them. 

The  horse  wranglers  were  supposed  to  assist  the  round- 
up cook  in  making  and  breaking  up  camp,  setting  up  and 
taking  down  the  cook  and  sleeping  tents,  seeing  that  the  cook 
had  wood  and  water,  loading  und  unloading  the  rolls  of  bed- 
ding, stake  ropes,  etc.,  always  keeping  an  eye  on  his  loose 
bunch  of  horses  so  that  they  could  round  them  up  and  bring 
them  into  camp  on  a  few  moments'  notice. 

The  cook  had  charge  of  the  cook  wagon  with  its  load  of 
provisions  and  camp  equipage.  Like  the  cowboys,  he  got  but 
very  little  sleep,  often  up  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
and  until  very  late  at  night.  He  drove  the  wagon  from  point 
to  point  from  six  to  eight  miles  at  a  time,  according  to  in- 
structions given  him  by  the  foreman  of  the  outfit,  who  re- 
ceived his  instructions  from  the  superintendent  of  the  round- 
up. The  distance  of  the  drives  depended  upon  the  number 
of  cattle  to  be  rounded  up,  the  lay  and  character  of  the  country 
to  be  worked  and  the  supply  of  water  for  the  men  and  stock. 
The  cook  was  supposed  to  be  able  to  rustle  a  meal  in  a  very 
short  time. 

In  the  early  round-up  days  we  would  depend  much  on  wild 
game,  ham,  shoulders  and  bacon,  beans,  syrup,  sugar,  coffee, 
soda  bread  or  biscuits,  and  sometimes  honey.    The  game  con- 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


201 


202  Trails  of  Yesterday 

sisted  principally  of  antelope,  buffalo,  deer  and  elk.  Later 
we  fared  better,  using  canned  corn,  tomatoes,  condensed  milk, 
potatoes,  onions,  beans,  baking  powder  biscuits,  sugar,  syrup, 
and  when  game  was  scarce  all  the  fresh  beef  we  needed,  to 
say  nothing  of  vegetables  and  often  canned  fruit,  dried  apples, 
prunes,  and  other  dried  fruits. 

When  the  meal  was  ready  the  cook  hallooed,  "Grub  pile," 
and  each  cowboy,  without  ceremony,  grabbed  a  tin  plate, 
cup,  knife,  fork  and  spoon  and  helped  himself,  then  retired, 
either  outside  or  in  one  corner  of  the  tent. 


A  Hasty  Meal 

Before  the  meal  was  finished  the  horses  were  driven  into 
the  rope  corral,  ready  to  be  roped  by  their  respective  riders, 
or  in  case  of  their  absence,  by  the  foreman  or  wrangler, 
and  tied  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  absent  cowmen. 

If  cattle  were  plentiful  on  the  range  and  not  too  many 
cows  and  calves,  and  brands  showed  up  plainly,  we  would 
round  up,  work  and  separate  three  thousand  to  five  thousand 
head  per  day,  putting  each  brand  of  cattle  in  its  proper  herd, 
working  two  to  four  bunches  of  three  hundred  to  five  hundred 
head  in  a  bunch  at  a  time.  The  cows  and  calves  would  be 
cut  out  first. 

After  all  stray  cows  and  calves  were  cut  out  the  bunch 


Trails  of  Yesterday  203 

was  turned  over  to  the  outfit  having  the  largest  number  of 
cattle.  The  duty  of  the  foreman  or  experienced  cowman  in 
charge  was  to  see  that  the  bunch  was  handled  quietly — not 
"ginned"  around — and  that  no  cattle  were  cut  out  except  those 
which  the  parties  working  the  bunch  had  a  right  to  take, 
especially  mavericks,  unless  following  the  mother. 

Sometimes  disputes  would  arise  over  certain  brands  and 
if  the  contending  parties  were  hotheads,  the  contention  might 
result  in  a  quarrel  and  end  in  a  killing,  in  the  early  round-up 
days  when  "might  made  right."  But  a  killing  was  an  ex- 
ception to  the  rule.  Later  nearly  all  disputes  were  settled 
by  arbitration  or  an  appeal  to  two  disinterested,  experienced 
cattle  owners  on  the  ground.  In  this  way  we  got  along 
better. 

In  a  subsequent  chapter  I  may  refer  to  one  case  where 
neighboring  cattle  owners  tried  to  take  advantage  of  the 
writer. 

These  round-ups  would  take  from  three  to  six  weeks  in 
the  spring  and  about  thirty  or  more  days  in  the  fall. 

All  the  cattle  back  on  their  own  range  again,  then  would 
come  the  branding  of  calves  and  mavericks.  These  we 
would  gather  together  one  day  and  brand  the  next.  The 
cows  and  calves  would  be  taken  to  some  corral  on  the  range, 
held  in  the  pens  during  the  night,  and  early  the  next  morning 
the  calves  would  be  separated  from  their  mothers,  when  the 
task  of  roping,  throwing,  branding  and  marking  would  be 
easy.  Eight  or  ten  men  and  I  would  brand  and  mark  five 
hundred  or  more  calves  in  one  afternoon.  I  would  inva- 
riably handle  the  branding  irons  myself,  allowing  one  of  the 
men  to  do  the  ear  marking  and  keep  tally.  Occasionally  if 
we  found  a  bunch  of  cows  and  calves  a  long  distance  from 
one  of  the  corrals,  we  would  rope  and  brand  the  calves  on  the 
prairie. 

In  branding  large  herds  of  grown  cattle  we  usually  used 
the  corrals  and  branding  chutes  when  near.  If  not  we  would 
rope,  throw  and  brand  them  on  the  prairie. 


204  Trails  of  Yesterday 

Our  flesh  brands  and  ear  marks  were  as  follows:  Com- 
mon herd,  O  on  left  hip  and  O  on  ^f t  l°m-  Ear  mark  OO 
(crop  off  the  right  and  slit  in  the  left  ear)  and  in  addition 
to  the  above,  for  several  years  we  used  a  horn  brand.  Our 
native  herd  was  branded  OO  on  ^e^  h*P  and  O  on  left  loin, 
with  same  ear  mark  as  above.  Our  thoroughbred  herd  was 
tagged  in  left  ear  and  numbered.  We  also  branded  about 
three  thousand  yearlings  one  year  thus :  ^  with  the  regular 
ear  mark,  i.  e.,  crop  off  the  right  and  slit  in  left  ear.  These 
we  shipped  to  Mountain  Home,  Idaho. 


A  Branding  Scene 

The  three  classes  of  cattle  were  kept  separate,  the  com- 
mon herd,  north  of  the  North  Platte  River;  the  native  herd 
of  five  hundred  head  or  more,  at  Fox  Creek ;  and  the  thorough- 
breds at  the  Home  Ranch.  To  relieve  the  congestion  on  our 
ranges  we  placed  some  out  on  shares  with  small  stockmen,  in 
Deuel,  Keith,  Grant,  Cherry,  Custer,  and  other  counties, 
giving  the  parties  one-half  the  increase,  they  to  make  good 
the  original  number  except  those  that  died  from  natural 
causes. 

Of  course,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  keep  track  of 
every  detail.      I  was  extremely  fortunate   in  having  good, 


Trails  of  Yesterday  205 

trusty  employees  and  I  at  all  times  appreciated  them.  I 
would  always  share  their  lot,  the  same  bed,  the  same  food 
and  the  same  strenuous  hard  work,  and  I  would  never  ask  an 
employee  to  do  something  that  I  would  not  do  myself.  I 
held  their  respect  and  good  will.  I  would  say  "come,"  not 
"go,"  especially  if  something  difficult  was  to  be  accomplished. 

In  1885  our  company,  known  as  John  Bratt  &  Co.,  bought 
from  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad  Company  123,673  acres 
of  land,  lying  west  of  Birdwood  Creek,  east  of  White  Tail 
Creek  and  north  of  the  North  Platte  River,  which  we  fenced, 
thus  enclosing  with  the  government  sections  nearly  250,000 
acres,  but  we  never  built  a  stick  of  fence  on  government  land. 

This  dispensed  with  expensive  round-ups  and  gave  us  a 
better  chance  to  provide  feed  for  our  stock  in  winter.  The 
river  bottoms  were  fenced  off  from  the  range  and  divided 
into  many  hay  meadows,  in  which  we  put  up  thousands  of  tons 
of  hay  in  shock  at  a  cost  of  not  to  exceed  fifty  cents  per  ton. 
Fire  guards  around  the  hay  bottoms  and  around  the  range 
were  plowed  and  a  wide  strip  burned  out  and  every  precaution 
was  taken  to  protect  the  range  from  prairie  fire.  Still  the 
fires  would  come  dashing  in  on  us  from  hunters  or  other 
careless  people  despite  our  precautions. 

Even  though  beef  went  to  a  low  price,  we  made  some 
money.  We  paid  our  men  good  wages,  gave  them  good  food 
and  cared  the  best  we  could  for  their  moral  and  physical 
welfare.  We  kept  them  winter  and  summer,  unlike  some  of 
our  Western  stock  growers,  who  discharged  the  most  of  their 
men  in  the  fall,  thus  doing  more  to  make  horse  and  cattle 
thieves  out  of  them  than  anything  they  could  do.  The  sum- 
mer's wages  of  a  cowboy  would  often  be  spent  in  a  night. 
What  was  he  to  do  through  the  winter?  He  had  to  live,  and 
to  live  he  was  forced  to  steal. 

I  was  a  member  of  the  Executive  Committee  of  the 
Wyoming  Stock  Association  for  several  years.  Much  thiev- 
ing and  rustling  was  going  on.  We  were  following  some  of 
these  rustlers  into  Texas,  and  even  into  old  Mexico,  and  I 


206  Trails  of  Yesterday 

frankly  told  the  members  of  this  committee  that  they  did 
everything  they  could,  indirectly,  to  make  horse  and  cattle 
thieves  out  of  their  employees.  Some  agreed  with  me,  and 
later  allowed  many  of  these  employees  to  remain  at  their 
ranches  through  the  winter,  boarding  them  without  charge, 
while  others  paid  their  men  half  wages  and  boarded  them  for 
the  little  work  they  did  around  the  ranches.  Later,  with 
improved  breeds  of  cattle,  ranch  improvements,  with  a  mild 
attempt  at  farming  by  irrigation,  some  of  these  cowboys, 
who  at  first  insisted  on  doing  all  the  farming  on  horseback, 
caught  on  to  modern  methods,  and  now  do  not  look  with 
contempt  on  the  plow,  disc,  drill,  mower  and  binder. 

Times  are  changing,  and  the  old  cowman  has  changed 
also.  Not  so  long  ago,  when  wishing  to  retire  at  night,  he 
would  seek  his  roll  of  bedding,  sometimes  doubling  up  with 
another  cowboy,  untie  or  unbuckle  his  tarpaulin  and  spread 
out  the  bedding  on  some  level  place  near  camp,  free  from 
cactus  and  sagebrush.  The  tarpaulin  was  laid  next  to  the 
ground  and  was  about  twice  the  length  of  his  bed.  The  bed 
consisted  of  one  or  more  pairs  of  blankets  and  sometimes 
a  pillow.  If  not,  he  used  his  saddle,  warsack  or  boots.  The 
bed  made,  the  other  half  of  the  "paulin"  was  pulled  over 
the  bed,  making  a  shelter  from  the  cold  and  rain,  should  any 
fall  during  the  night;  then  he  turned  in,  when  the  following 
verses  would  philosophically  describe  his  feelings : 


When  the  storm  is  blowing, 
Do  not  curse  your  lot. 
If  it  wasn't  snowing, 
Might  be  blazing  hot. 

When  the  sun  is  pelting, 
Fire  brand,  don't  scold; 
If  it  wasn't  melting, 
Might  be  freezing  cold. 

Take  life  as  you  find  it. 
See,  the  rainbow's  curled. 
Trouble?     Never  mind  it. 
Good  Lord  runs  the  world. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  207 

THE  COWBOY'S  HYMN 

Last  night  as  I  lay  on  the  prairie 
And  gazed  at  the  stars  in  the  sky, 
I  wondered  if  ever  a  cowboy 
Would  ride  to  that  sweet  Bye  and  Bye. 

The  road  that  leads  to  that  region 

Is  narrow  and  dim,  so  they  say; 

But  the  trail  that  leads  down  to  perdition 

Is  staked  and  blazed  all  the  way. 

Some  day  there  will  be  a  great  Round-up, 
When  cowboys,  like  mavericks,  shall  stand 
To  be  cut  out  by  those  Heavenly  riders, 
Who  are  posted  and  know  every  brand. 

I  wonder  if  ever  a  cowboy 
Was  prepared  for  the  great  Judgment  Day, 
And  could  say  to  the  boss  of  the  riders, 
"I  am  ready  to  be  driven  away!" 

They  say  He  will  never  forsake  you ; 
That  he  notes  every  action  and  look. 
So  for  safety  you  had  better  get  branded 
And  have  your  name  in  His  great  tally  book. 

A  CHRISTIAN  COWBOY'S  CREED 

I  am  no  profess'n'  Christian  of  the  sort  the  cities  hold. 

Haint  been  gathered  with  the  chosen  in  the  chosen's  sacred  fold. 

An'  I've  never  grown  in  spirit  while  a-thinkin'  o'  the  way, 

That  the   reckless   unbelievers   sin   around   me  every  day. 

All  the  creed  I  try  to  practice  is  the  ol'  time  Golden  Rule. 

Never  hear  no  sacred  music  but  the  breezes  fresh  and  cool ; 

An'  the  only  church  o'  worship  onto  which  my  fancy  clings 

Is  the  outdoor  church  o'  nature  whar  the  Lord's  a-runnin'  things. 

I  can  get  more  soothing  comfort  from  the  music  o'  the  brooks 
Than  the  preachers  o'  creation  ever  rassled  out  o'  books; 
An'  the  sighin'  o'  the  breezes  an'  the  singin'  o'  the  birds 
Brings  a  sort  o'  Christian  feelin'  you  can  never  get  from  words. 
There  is  sermons  in  the  sunshine,  there's  discourses  in  the  flowers. 
There   is  heavenly  baptism   in  the  gentle  springtime  showers. 
There  is  life  an'  inspiration  in  the  brooks  an'  in  the  springs, 
Out  in  nature's  sanctuary  whar  the  Lord's   a-runnin'  things. 

While  I'm  ridin'  on  the  night  herd,  every  star  that  gleams  above 
Seems  a  sparkling'  gem  that's  speaking  o'  the  Master's  kindly  love. 
An'  the  flashin'   o'  the   lightnin'   an'  thunder's  angry  roar 
Tells  me  o'  the  power  majestic,  o'  the  Being  I  adore. 


208  Trails  of  Yesterday 

When  the  storm  in  awful  fury  is  a-bawlin'  in  its  wrath, 
Like  as  if  it'd  sweep  the  cattle  jes'  like  feathers  from  its  path, 
I'm  contented  as  the  sage  chicks  underneath  their  mother's  wings; 
Out  in  nature's  big  cathedral  whar  the  Lord's  a-runnin'  things. 

When  I  hear  the  final  summons,  sent  to  tell  me  I  mus'  go 
To  the  Round-up  in  the  Heavens  from  the  ranges  here  below, 
Not  a  song  nor  not  a  sermon  nor  a  ceremonious  play 
Do  I  want  in  the  perceedin's,  when  my  body's  laid  away. 
I  would  rather  far  be  buried  on  the  ranges  all  alone, 
With  the  spot  whar  I'm  sleepin'  never  marked  by  board  or  stone ; 
So's  when  Gabriel  sounds  his  trumpet  I  kin  rise  and  spread  my  wings 
From  the  grassy  slopes  of  nature,  whar  the  Lord's  a-runnin'  things. 

James  Burton  Adams  in  D.  P. 

Whole-souled,  generous,  big-hearted,  fearless  and  ever- 
faithful  cowboy!  May  your  every  wish  be  fulfilled,  your 
ashes  rest  in  peace  and  your  soul  dwell  in  happiness  and  peace 
forever  with  the  faithful  who  have  preceded  and  will  follow 
you  to  that  great  and  glorious  Kingdom,  when  you  will  be 
forever  safe  in  the  Great  Range  Master's  care. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Our  Cowboys — Characteristics — Adventures 

LEW  PARKER  was  a  Texan,  who  rather  than  let  go  of 
the  lariat,  held  on  to  an  outlaw  broncho  until  he  pulled 
the  thumb  off  his  hand. 

There  was  Will  Rix  (mentioned  in  a  previous  chapter) 
who  rather  than  go  a  quarter  of  a  mile  out  of  his  way  around 
Point  Lookout,  took  his  same  old  trail,  contrary  to  orders, 
and  as  a  result  was  shot  twice  through  the  body  by  Indians 
lying  in  wait  for  him.  Rix  tore  the  handkerchief  from  around 
his  neck  and  as  soon  as  the  Indians  quit  chasing  him,  plugged 
the  bullet  holes  in  his  body  with  bits  of  his  handkerchief  to 
stop  the  bleeding.  He  had  to  be  lifted  off  his  horse  on  arrival 
at  the  Home  Ranch.  His  clothes,  saddle  and  horse  were 
almost  covered  with  blood  from  his  wounds.  He  got  well 
in  about  two  months  and  later  went  to  Salt  Lake. 

Little  Jim,  the  Texas  horse  wrangler,  rode  a  horse  from 
Ogallala  to  our  Home  Ranch,  a  distance  of  sixty  miles,  in 
five  hours,  rode  up  to  me  and  asked  for  a  change  of  horses. 
I  told  him  to  go  into  the  corral  and  help  himself.  He  did, 
then  went  to  the  kitchen,  grabbed  some  biscuits  and  meat  and 
without  any  explanation,  started  south  as  fast  as  his  horse 
could  go.  Half  an  hour  later  the  sheriff  of  Keith  County 
came  rushing  up  on  a  horse  covered  with  foam.  The  sheriff 
was  in  hot  pursuit  of  Little  Jim,  who  had  shot  and  killed  the 
foreman  of  Fant's  herd  because  he  had  blacksnaked  him. 
I  learned  later  that  the  sheriff  never  caught  him. 

Nibsey  Meiggs,  the  son  of  a  rich  South  American  con- 
tractor, was  cast  adrift  by  a  proud  stepfather.  He  was 
placed  aboard  a  Peru  naval  vessel  by  his  father.  He  had  no 
taste  for  that  kind  of  life,  and  one  dark  night,  while  the  vessel 
was  lying  at  anchor  in  San  Francisco  harbor,  jumped  over- 
board, swam  ashore  and  worked  his  way  to  North  Platte  and 

209 


210 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


finally  to  our  Curtis  Ranch,  where  I  hired  him.  Nibsey  was 
honest,  truthful  and  afraid  of  nothing.  He  worked  for  us 
several  years.  In  the  winter  of  1872,  on  the  information  of 
Spotted  Tail  and  his  band,  he  rode  alone  nearly  two  hundred 
fifty  miles  to  the  head  waters  of  the  Republican  River  and 
brought  back  sixty-six  head  of  our  stray  cattle.  On  a  dare  he 
jumped  upon  the  back  of  a  wild  six-year-old  Texas  steer  that 
was  being  branded  in  the  chute  at  the  Home  Ranch  and  rode 
the  steer  nearly  two  miles  before  he  slid  off.  While  corralling 
a  bunch  of  beef  cattle  one  night  at  the  Burke  Ranch,  in  chas- 


Nibsey  on  a  Wild  Steer 


ing  one  that  broke  away  he  fell,  with  his  horse,  into  an  old 
abandoned  well.  We  had  to  dig  them  out,  the  well  being 
about  six  feet  wide  and  twelve  to  fifteen  feet  deep.  The 
horse's  neck  was  broken  but  Nibsey  was  unhurt.  At  Fox 
Creek  Ranch  he  rode  a  horse  so  wild  that  we  had  to  throw 
him  to  saddle  him.  With  Nibsey  in  the  saddle,  the  broncho 
dashed  through  the  thick  timber  and  brush,  stripped  himself 
of  the  saddle  and  landed  Nibsey,  head  down,  in  a  five-foot 
snowdrift  at  the  head  of  a  small  pocket,  where  we  found  him 
with  just  his  feet  sticking  out  of  the  drift  and  very  nearly 
gasping  his  last  breath.    This  is  the  same  Nibsey,  who,  while 


Trails  of  Yesterday  211 

cooking  for  six  of  us  when  we  were  building  the  Curtis  Ranch 
near  Medicine  Creek,  made  us  a  batter  pudding  and  finding 
nothing  to  boil  it  in,  tore  the  back  out  of  old  Gokey's  dirty 
shirt  and  boiled  the  batter  pudding  in  this. 

"Billy — the  Bear"  got  lost  from  a  round-up  in  the  Lake 
country  near  Spring  Valley,  southwest  of  Hyannis.  We 
finally  found  him  after  three  days'  search.  He  had  become 
temporarily  insane  and  was  on  top  of  a  hill  pawing  dirt  and 
bellowing  like  a  mad  steer  and  came  charging  at  us  when  we 
surrounded  him.  We  had  to  rope  and  tie  him  down  in  the 
wagon  until  we  got  him  to  the  ranch,  where,  after  a  month's 
nursing,  he  regained  his  senses. 

This  is  the  country  where  one  cloudy  morning  on  a  round- 
up I  turned  loose  sixty  cowboys  to  work  the  country  and  drift 
the  cattle  to  Three  Mile  lake.  All  the  men  got  lost  but 
George  Bosler,  Jerry  Drummer,  John  Burke,  Jr.,  and  myself. 
We  happened  to  have  pocket  compasses,  otherwise  we  would 
have  been  lost  also. 

Another  faithful  cowman  (a  crack  shot)  whom  we  kept 
at  the  outside  ranches  on  range  lines,  was  John  Hancock. 
One  night  while  on  a  round-up  he  tried  to  sleep  in  the  Burke 
Grove  near  Fort  McPherson  but  could  not  do  so  on  account  of 
the  numerous  mosquitoes.  He  stood  them  off  for  a  time  by 
smoking  but  they  became  so  persistent  that  they  did  not  mind 
tobacco  smoke,  when  John  suddenly  took  off  all  his  clothing, 
ran  out  into  the  open,  commenced  to  beat  his  hands  and 
arms  and  hollered  for  nearly  half  an  hour:  "Come  at  me 
now!  Come  at  me  now!  Come  and  eat  me  up,  you  sons 
of  guns!"  They  took  him  at  his  word  and  it  was  misery  for 
Hancock  to  wear  his  clothing  for  some  days  afterwards. 

He  and  that  prince  of  cowboys,  "Dick  Bean,"  were  great 
chums.  When  the  Cheyenne  Indians  under  chief  Dull  Knife 
came  up  from  the  Indian  Territory  through  Kansas  and  Neb- 
raska, Hancock  was  holding  our  west  line  on  the  North 
Platte  River  near  White  Tail  Creek,  and  Dick  was  foreman 
at  the  "Keystone,"  the  Ogallala  cattle  ranch  about  a  couple 


212  Trails  of  Yesterday 

of  miles  west  of  our  ranch.  Bean  and  Hancock  saw  the  In- 
dians coming  across  the  river  and  kept  under  cover  ahead  of 
them  until  the  Indians  went  into  camp  on  the  White  Tail 
Creek,  when  they  returned  to  the  Keystone  ranch  and  there 
learned  that  Major  Thornburg  and  his  command,  in  pur- 
suit of  Dull  Knife's  band,  had  just  formed  camp  without 
lights  on  the  south  bank  of  the  North  Platte  River.  Han- 
cock and  Bean,  although  it  was  a  rather  dark  night,  went 
across  the  river  and  told  Major  Thornburg  that  they  could 
take  him  to  Dull  Knife's  camp  in  about  one  to  two  hours' 
ride.  The  Major  declined  the  offer,  saying  that  he  was  not 
going  to  tackle  Dull  Knife's  band  in  an  unknown  country  on  a 
dark  night  like  that.  The  Major  waited  with  his  command 
until  daybreak  and  lost  the  opportunity  of  his  life.  He  and 
his  men  rode  hard  on  the  trail  of  Dull  Knife  and  his  band  for 
several  days,  only  to  capture  now  and  then  a  played-out  In- 
dian pony  or  an  old  buck,  squaw  or  papoose.  They  never 
overtook  Dull  Knife,  who  with  Old  Crow,  Wild  Hog  and 
about  sixty  other  warriors,  was  finally  located  near  the  sinks 
of  Snake  Creek  by  U.  S.  Cavalry  under  Captains  Johnson 
and  Thompson,  aided  by  some  twenty-two  Sioux  scouts  under 
American  Horse. 

I  may  refer  again  to  Dull  Knife,  whom  I  first  met  while 
our  ox-train  was  about  to  cross  a  dry  fork  of  the  Cheyenne 
River  in  1866  and  again  in  1872  between  Medicine  Creek 
and  Platte  River.  The  story  of  the  capture  and  death  of  him- 
self and  brave  band  is  one  of  the  most  pathetic  in  Indian 
history  and  sheds  no  glory  on  the  humane  side  of  our  "Great 
Father's"  management  of  the  Cheyenne  Indians  under  Dull 
Knife  at  Fort  Robinson. 

Pardon  for  digressing,  there  was  Jim  Noble,  who,  while 
herding  our  thoroughbred  cattle  near  the  Home  Ranch,  re- 
sented some  imaginary  wrong  done  him  by  a  nearby  home- 
steader, pulled  his  revolver  and  tried  to  shoot  him  but  sent 
the  ball  through  his  pony's  neck  instead. 

Jim's   brother,    "Faithful   Zack,"   was   foreman   at   our 


Some  of  the  "Circle"  Cowboys  in  1888 


Trego 


Rupp 


("oker 


Schick 


Cowboys  of  the  "Circle"  Outfit 


Trails  of  Yesterday  213 

Home  Ranch  for  several  years.  He  was  one  of  the  best  we 
ever  had  and  did  not  believe  in  plowing  corn  on  horseback. 
He  and  his  good  wife  boarded  the  men,  who  could  not  say  too 
many  kind  things  about  each  of  them. 

Then  we  had  good,  honest  Dick  Davis  and  his  amiable 
wife.  When  consulting  him  about  the  work  at  the  ranch 
he  would  sometimes  say,  "I  will  talk  it  over  with  Ed,"  mean- 
ing Ed  Gentry.  Both  heads  were  usually  level.  Dick  later 
was  appointed  by  me  as  Chief  of  Police  of  North  Platte  dur- 
ing my  two  terms  as  Mayor,  and  a  more  faithful,  efficient 
officer  never  lived.  He  made  it  warm  for  the  gamblers  and 
law-breakers,  ridding  the  city  of  both  nearly  at  the  cost  of  his 
life. 

Here  I  am  reminded  of  faithful  Silas  Sillasen  and  his 
brothers  Jens  and  Andrew.  The  latter  died  at  Birdwood 
ranch  from  drinking  part  of  the  contents  of  a  bottle  of  car- 
bolic acid  which  in  the  dark  he  mistook  for  a  bottle  of  medi- 
cine. Everything  was  done  to  save  his  life  by  good  Mrs.  John 
Coker  and  others  but  without  effect.  He  was  given  a  cowboy 
funeral  from  the  Lutheran  Church  in  North  Platte.  His 
favorite  cow  pony,  carrying  his  empty  saddle,  was  led  behind 
the  hearse. 

The  cowboys  tell  a  story  about  Silas's  waking  Tom  Stowe 
to  go  on  relief  herd  one  night.  Silas  went  quietly  up  to 
Tom's  bed,  which  was  in  the  open  covered  by  the  starry 
canopy,  pulled  the  bed  "paulin"  back  from  over  his  head 
and  shook  him  gently,  saying,  "Tom!  Tom!!  Your  time 
has  come."  Tom  jumped  up,  grabbed  his  gun  and  answered, 
"The  h— 1  it  has !" 

I  cannot  conclude  this  chapter  without  referring  to  Jake 
•Rupp,  whom  some  of  the  cowboys  persuaded  to  wash  his 
head  and  face  in  coal  oil  to  make  his  hair,  whiskers  and  mus- 
tache grow.  It  did  the  opposite.  Poor  Jake,  it  is  claimed, 
later  became  mentally  incapacitated  to  look  after  his  interests, 
worth  several  thousands  of  dollars,  accumulated  mostly  while 
in  our  employ.     Honest  Nate  Trego,  another  faithful  em- 


214  Trails  of  Yesterday 

ployee,  and  others,  are  looking  after  Jake's  affairs  and  no 
doubt  doing  what  they  deem  best  for  him  and  his  interests. 
Yet  I  think  Jake  is  perfectly  harmless  and  with  a  little  kind 
supervision  could  be  allowed  to  manage  his  own  affairs. 
I  saw  the  superintendent  of  the  Sanitarium  at  College  View, 
Nebraska,  where  Jake  is  being  treated,  and  he  assured  me 
Jake  was  all  right  and  could  go  home  to  his  ranch.  I  shall 
try  to  see  that  his  suggestions  are  carried  out.  The  actions  of 
some  mercenary  relatives  have  helped  bring  about  his  con- 
dition. 

Another  great  cowboy  character  was  Buck  Taylor,  who 
ate  twenty-four  biscuits  at  one  meal  and  told  the  boys  he 
would  eat  twenty-four  more  if  they  did  not  stop  teasing  him. 
He  later  became  a  prominent  rough  rider  in  Buffalo  Bill's 
show. 

Bill  Jackson  was  a  colored  cook  who  came  up  with  one 
of  our  herds  from  Texas.  I  had  to  sit  up  with  him  all  night 
in  order  to  prevail  upon  him  to  give  us  an  early  breakfast. 

Al  Raynor,  another  cook  whom  I  scolded  for  being  so 
slow  in  getting  up,  contended  that  he  was  quick  at  that.  I 
told  him  I  thought  it  took  him  nearly  half  an  hour  that 
morning  to  pull  his  boots  on.  This  he  denied  by  saying  that 
he  always  slept  with  his  boots  on. 

James  Jasper,  nicknamed  "Arkansas,"  came  up  with  an- 
other of  our  herds  from  Texas.  He  could  not  tell  a  copper 
cent  from  a  five  dollar  gold  piece  or  a  one  dollar  bill  from 
a  twenty.  When  I  paid  him  off,  after  buying  his  railroad 
ticket  to  San  Antonio  and  giving  him  $5.00  for  expense 
money,  I  gave  him  $428.00,  balance  due  him,  in  one  dollar 
bills,  which  I  made  him  sew  inside  the  lining  of  his  coat  and 
then  safely  put  him  on  the  train  with  a  letter  of  introduction 
to  the  conductors  of  the  railroads  I  routed  him  over. 

John  Miller  was  another  cook.  When  I  came  in  at  the 
Birdwood  Ranch  unexpectedly  one  day,  Miller  was  talking 
to  himself,  saying  "Bald-headed  and  nearsighted!  The  last 
of  a  played-out  race,  and  it  shall  stop  right  here."   Then  he 


Trails  of  Yesterday  215 

went  to  Frontier  County,  married  a  widow  and  became  the 
father  of  a  large  family. 

Ed.  Coates  was  another  good  fellow,  who  would  either 
pour  a  cup  of  coal  oil  on  the  fire  or  drop  in  the  stove  a  44 
metallic  cartridge  when  he  wanted  a  little  more  room  around 
his  cook  stove. 

Another  cook,  Jim  Carson,  became  angry  and  snapped  a 
six-shooter  at  me  six  times  because  I  asked  him  to  get  up  at 
ten  o'clock  one  night  to  cook  supper  for  a  bunch  of  hungry 
cowboys  who  had  ridden  hard  all  day  without  anything  to 
eat.  He  frankly  told  me  that  he  would  not  get  up  and  cook 
supper  and  I  told  him  if  he  did  not  he  must  leave  the  ranch 
that  night.  He  said  he  would  do  neither.  Carson  got  up 
and  dressed.  I  made  out  his  account  and  gave  him  his  check 
and  told  him  he  must  leave.  He  pulled  his  revolver  and 
snapped  the  six  chambers  at  me.  I  have  never  been  able 
to  figure  out  why  they  did  not  go  off.  Jim's  intentions  were 
to  kill  me.  He  reached  for  a  Winchester  standing  in  a  corner 
of  the  ranch  house,  but  by  this  time  I  had  my  own  revolver 
covering  him.  He  tied  up  his  blankets,  slung  them  over  his 
shoulder  and  I  escorted  him  out  of  the  ranch,  across  the 
slough  bridge  and  bade  him  good  night,  to  which  he  replied 
he  would  get  even  with  me  yet.  The  hungry  cowboys  got  a 
good  supper.  They  approved  of  what  I  had  done,  except 
that  they  thought  I  would  have  been  justified  in  killing 
Carson. 

I  would  be  an  ingrate  did  I  not  briefly  describe  some  of 
the  characteristics  of  several  of  our  foremen  and  other  faith- 
ful employees  before  closing  this  chapter.  They  show  that, 
while  cowboys  in  those  days  led  a  hard,  rough  life  with  only 
limited  chances  to  better  their  moral  and  mental  condition, 
yet  there  was  always  a  high  sense  of  honor  among  them, 
showing  that  there  were  many  good  hearts  beating  under  those 
woolen  shirts — hearts  full  of  sympathy  in  case  of  injury  or 
death.  I  saw  a  large  group  of  cowboys  weep  when  poor 
Tom  Lonogan  met  his  death  on  a  round-up  on  Willow  Creek 


216  Trails  of  Yesterday 

bottom,  in  trying  to  stop  a  cow  from  going  into  another  bunch. 
The  horse  and  cow  came  together  with  such  force  that  all 
went  down.    Tom's  neck  was  broken. 

Volney  Frazier  was  the  "Adonis  and  Apollo"  of  the 
cow  camp.  When  I  introduced  him  to  his  future  wife,  he 
wanted  to  know  how  soon  I  thought  he  could  win  her  for 
his  wife.     It  took  nearly  six  months. 

E.  W.  Murphy,  who  could  do  more  work  on  less  sleep 
and  food  than  any  man  I  ever  knew,  when  asked  to  take  a 
very  nice  girl  for  a  horseback  ride,  hesitated  and  said  he 
had  no  time  to  take  girls  out  riding.  But  he  took  her  and 
finally  won  her  for  a  wife.  They  are  the  proud  parents  of 
a  very  nice,  happy  family.  He  hated  profanity  unless  suit- 
able to  the  occasion.  He  would  not  be  imposed  upon.  Col- 
burn,  who  shut  up  one  of  Mr.  Murphy's  cows,  discovered 
this  when  he  broke  a  fence  rail  across  Colburn's  back  and 
turned  the  cow  out  of  the  corral. 

William  Burke,  a  six-foot,  good-looking  Missourian, 
when  he  heard  that  the  city  marshal  of  North  Platte  had 
mistreated  one  of  the  cowboys  working  under  him,  came  down 
from  the  Birdwood  ranch  and  broke  a  chair  over  the  mar- 
shal's head.  Burke  had  no  bad  habits  and  was  always  in  for 
fair  play. 

Jim  Reed  was  a  good-natured  fellow  but  John  Challener 
would  not  allow  him  to  lie  down  or  sit  on  his  bed.     Why? 

John  Lockwood  was  always  faithful  and  watched  over 
our  interests.  Grandpa  and  Grandma  Lockwood  and 
daughters  were  good  people  whom  it  was  a  pleasure  to  meet 
and  to  know. 

Robert  McKnight  at  the  Home  Ranch  would  write  on 
the  barn  and  granary  doors:  "Mr.  Bratt  says,  'Be  sure  and 
close  the  granary  door  for  if  you  don't  the  hogs  will  eat  the 
corn.'  'Be  sure  and  water  the  horses,  if  not  they  will  get 
thirsty.'  " 

Donald  McAndrew,  or  "Scotty,"  was  a  good,  all-round 
foreman.     He  knew  how  to  farm  to  get  good  results. 


Leonard  Cornet 


Trails  of  Yesterday  217 

Hans  Gertler,  good  old  Hans!  and  Mrs.  Gertler,  were 
typical  Germans.  They  kept  the  Home  Ranch  for  several 
years  and  boarded  the  men  who  worked  at  the  ranch.  The 
employees  thought  Hans  and  his  wife  were  just  perfect.  They 
liked  to  call  her  Minnie  until  she  resented  it  by  asking  one 
of  the  men:  "Whose  Minnie  am  I?  Yours  or  Hans's?"  I 
remember  roping  a  two-year-old  steer  in  the  corral  one  day. 
I  caught  him  by  the  foot  and  "snubbed"  him  to  the  fence, 
requesting  Hans  to  get  me  another  rope.  This  he  did  and 
I  commenced  swinging  the  rope,  at  the  same  time  walking 
up  to  the  steer,  who  started  for  me,  having  slipped  the  rope 
off  his  foot.  He  came  at  me  so  swiftly  that  I  had  not  time 
to  get  out  of  his  way.  I  ducked.  The  steer  went  over  me 
and  struck  poor  Hans  squarely  in  the  stomach,  knocking  him 
to  the  ground.  If  the  steer  had  not  had  flaring  horns  he 
would  have  killed  Hans,  whom  I  did  not  know  was  behind 
me.  For  a  long  time  it  was  a  debatable  question  in  Hans's 
mind  how  I,  in  front  of  him,  escaped,  and  he,  behind,  got 
hurt.  Sam  Van  Doran,  then  a  little  boy,  was  with  his  father 
looking  on  through  the  fence  and  will  vouch  for  this  story. 

Leonard  Cornet,  who  had  charge  of  our  share  cattle  in 
several  counties  in  the  northwestern  part  of  Nebraska,  could 
be  depended  upon  in  every  emergency,  always  honest,  un- 
tiring and  faithful.  He  was  always  ready  at  a  moment's 
notice,  and  the  night  was  never  too  dark,  the  journey  too 
long,  or  the  river  too  wide  and  deep.  As  manager  of  the 
Union  Stock  Yards  here  he  is  still  found  by  his  employers  to  be 
the  same  trustworthy  man  as  in  past  years. 

Joe  Atkinson,  droll,  funny,  old  Joe !  could  change  a  dis- 
couraged camp  of  cowboys  into  one  of  laughter  and  good 
nature  in  an  instant  by  his  jokes  and  witticisms,  always  happy, 
good-natured  and  full  of  sunshine. 

John  Challener  was  a  typical  Englishman,  who  came  to 
America  to  learn  the  cattle  business.  John  was  red-headed, 
wiry,  full  of  grit  and  energy  and  a  real  good  fellow,  who 
prided  himself  in  wearing  a  neat,  well-fitting  suit  of  corduroy 


218  Trails  of  Yesterday 

knee  breeches,  which  some  of  the  cowboys  spoiled  by  drop- 
ping a  lighted  match  in  an  almost  empty  nail  keg  upon  which 
John  was  sitting.  It  had  two  pounds  of  loose  gunpowder 
in  it  and  John  and  the  keg  went  up  in  the  air.  The  former 
was  not  presentable  on  the  return  trip.  To  try  John's  nerve 
and  swimming  qualities,  they  had  one  of  their  number  feign 
sickness  and  hurried  John  across  the  North  Platte  River, 
which  was  swimming  over  half  way  across,  to  Paxton  for  a 
doctor.  John  came  back  with  the  doctor,  who  balked  on  cross- 
ing on  his  horse  when  he  came  to  the  river.  He  told  John  what 


The  Fate  of  the  Knee  Breeches 

to  do  for  the  sick  cowboy,  who  was  better  on  John's  return. 
This  is  the  same  Challener,  who,  when  a  thieving  band  of 
Sioux  Indians  took  our  horses  from  his  camp  at  Bald  Hill  in 
the  Lake  country,  came  out  of  the  camp  and,  though  alone, 
and  many  miles  from  other  ranches  and  men,  commenced 
shooting  at  the  Indians.  They  came  back  to  John's  camp,  bent 
on  killing  him.  John  shut  and  barred  the  door  of  the  ranch  and 
shot  at  them  through  the  window.  The  Indians  finally  got 
on  top  of  the  roof  of  the  ranch  and  sent  many  bullets  through 
it,  hoping  to  kill  John,  but  they  did  not  hurt  him,  although 
several  shots  came  very  close  to  him.     They  took  his  four 


Trails  of  Yesterday  219 

head  of  horses.  John  was  game.  He  sent  several  bullets 
after  them  as  they  rushed  the  horses  up  the  valley  towards 
the  head  of  the  Dismal.  John  finally  went  into  the  cattle 
business  on  the  South  Loup  River.  He  later  sold  out  and 
went  back  to  England,  where  I  hope  he  is  prospering  and 
happy. 

Next  we  have  Marion  Feagin  who  was  never  known  to 
tell  an  untruth,  chew  tobacco,  or  drink  anything  stronger 
than  coffee  or  water  (  ?).  He  married  a  nice  Iowa  girl  and 
brought  her  to  the  Birdwood  Ranch,  which  she  kept  for  a 
long  time.  The  first  night  at  the  ranch  must  have  been 
strange  to  her.  I  happened  to  be  there  with  some  twenty 
cowboys  to  gather  a  bunch  of  cattle.  Beds  were  spread  all 
over  the  dining  room  floor.  I  noticed  Mrs.  Feagin  locked 
the  ranch  door  before  retiring  to  her  room,  a  very  unusual 
thing  to  do  at  a  ranch  where  cowboys  are  coming  in  at  all 
hours  of  the  night.  I  got  up  and  unlocked  the  door  to  let 
a  cowboy  in,  when  Mrs.  Feagin  came  out  of  her  room  and 
locked  it  again.  I  think  about  half  a  dozen  more  cowboys 
came  in  before  daybreak.  I  know  they  kept  her  busy  nearly 
all  night  locking  and  unlocking  that  door.  Marion  told  her 
not  to  mind  it.  She  told  us  the  next  morning  that  she  had 
not  been  used  to  sleeping  in  her  Iowa  home  with  the  doors 
unlocked.  She  soon  got  over  that  at  the  Birdwood  Ranch. 
Later  Feagin  went  with  Isaac  Dillon  near  the  Powder  River  in 
Wyoming  where  he  established  a  horse  and  cattle  ranch.  He 
died  there  some  years  ago,  leaving  his  widow  and  two  sons 
considerable  property.  "Good-bye,  Marion.  Your  name 
will  be  in  the  right  book  on  the  final  round-up,  where  you 
will  meet  many  good  souls  like  your  own." 

Then  comes  Ed.  Richards,  one  of  the  best,  all-round 
cowboys  that  ever  sat  a  horse  or  roped  a  steer.  He  could 
sit  the  worst  bucking  horse,  throw  and  tie  the  wildest  steer 
or  lick  the  biggest  bully  in  camp.  He  would  think  it  fun 
to  ride  twenty  to  thirty  miles  to  take  some  nice  girl  to  a  dance, 
take  her  home  just  before  breakfast  after  dancing  all  night 


220  Trails  of  Yesterday 

and  be  ready  for  a  hard  day's  ride  that  day.  Ed.  finally  mar- 
ried a  nice  girl  near  Chadron  Creek.  He  started  a  ranch  and 
did  well  until  the  Great  Herd  Master  called  him. 

Next  comes  trusty  George  Potter,  who  was  never  happy 
unless  in  the  sight  of  "Old  Baldy."  He  had  charge  of  our 
herd  of  some  six  hundred  males  where  we  usually  wintered 
them  at  what  we  called  Mile  camp  some  eight  miles  west 
of  the  head  of  the  Dismal  River.  George  could  swear  once 
in  a  while,  shoot  straight  and  speak  his  thoughts  when  neces- 
sary to  big  or  little.  I  often  used  to  visit  George,  making 
the  drive  of  seventy-five  miles  from  the  Home  Ranch  to  Mile 
camp  alone  in  one  day.  Sometimes  I  would  never  meet  a 
soul  during  the  entire  trip,  going  and  coming.  It  gave  me  a 
chance  to  commune  with  nature.  Sometimes  I  would  meet 
or  see  at  a  distance  a  pack  of  wolves  or  hungry  coyotes  and 
many  deer,  elk  and  occasionally  a  buffalo.  George  later 
married  a  widow  in  the  Lake  country,  who  prevailed  upon 
him  to  sell  out  a  valuable  homestead  that  I  had  persuaded 
him  to  take  and  prove  up  on.  He  moved  to  California,  where 
he  died  some  years  ago. 

Now  a  word  as  to  Hank  Chestnut,  one  of  the  best-hearted 
cowmen  that  ever  lived  and  one  of  the  kindest  to  his  horses. 
He  could  go  into  a  corral  of  bronchos  and  within  an  hour 
have  the  meanest  one  in  the  bunch  eating  out  of  his  hand  and 
following  him  around  like  a  dog.  He  had  just  one  failing 
that  he  tried  to  overcome  but  could  not.  I  furnished  him 
funds  twice  to  take  treatment.  Under  encouragement  and 
fatherly  advice  he  quit  it  for  over  one  year.  He  married  a 
good  woman,  who  was  wife  and  mother  to  him.  He  meant 
well  and  was  loved  by  all  who  knew  him,  but  his  failing  finally 
beat  him  at  the  game.  I  could  write  a  chapter  on  good  old 
Hank.  I  tried  hard  to  make  a  man  of  him.  I  humored, 
petted,  pleaded,  coaxed  and  begged  him  to  quit  his  drinking 
habit.  He  would  promise.  The  spirit  was  willing  but  the 
flesh  was  weak.  Poor  Hank !  I  think  a  kind,  just  God,  when 
the  books  are  opened  on  the  judgment  day,  will  say  to  Hank 


Trails  of  Yesterday  221 

Chestnut  and  many  other  good,  unselfish  cowmen,  "Your 
many  good  deeds  outweigh  the  bad.    All  is  forgiven." 

We  had  during  our  twenty-five  years'  activity  in  the  cattle 
and  horse  growing  business,  hundreds  of  good,  faithful  men, 
many  whose  names  I  cannot  now  recall.  In  addition  to  those 
herein  before  referred  to  I  must  mention  E.  C.  Miller,  for 
whom  I  worked  cattle  at  Fort  Phil  Kearny  and  Pine  Bluffs 
in  1866  and  1867;  William  Burroughs,  John  Schick,  Nate 
Trego,  John  Wilson,  the  Burke,  Coker  and  Sillasen  Brothers, 
and  many  others.  All  were  good  men.  Some  are  now  rich 
and  nearly  all  have  all  they  need  of  this  world's  goods.  Many 
are  married,  raising  nice  families  and  living  in  comfortable, 
happy  homes.  Some  (I  say  it  in  sadness)  have  crossed  the 
Great  Divide  where  sooner  or  later  we  will  all  join  them. 

To  the  ones  who  are  left  I  repeat  the  same  old  story: 
"Do  right,  live  right  and  you  will  die  right."  The  many 
hardships  you  have  endured  entitle  you  to  the  best,  and  I 
believe  a  just  God  will  see  that  you  get  it.  This  is  not  only 
the  wish  but  the  prayer  of  one  who  has  always  been  ready  to 
share  your  lot  and  if  possible,  lighten  your  burdens,  and  who 
has  always  tried  to  set  before  you  a  good  example  and  en- 
couraged you  to  be  good,  moral  men,  sober,  economical  and, 
if  only  a  cowboy,  respected  by  all. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

On  the  Range — A  Time  When  Might  Didn't  Make  Right — Renew 
the  Acquaintence  of  Dull  Knife 

STRENUOUS  and  reliable  James  Kerr,  with  a  large 
outfit  of  cowboys,  had  just  returned  from  a  trip  as  far 
south  as  the  Red  River,  to  which  point  some  of  our  old 
brush  steers,  which  had  been  bought  in  Texas,  had  drifted 
during    the    winter    of    1871-72    toward    their    old    range. 
Kerr's  outfit  brought  back  several  thousand. 

In  the  fall  of  1871,  about  November  10th,  we  received 
a  herd  of  some  fifteen  hundred  head  of  mixed  Texas  cattle 
that  had  had  hard  usage  on  the  trail.  Mr.  Carter,  one  of 
our  partners,  had  made  a  trip  with  me  over  the  Fox  Creek 
and  Well  Canon  country  and  was  so  favorably  impressed 
with  it  as  a  country  for  wintering  cattle  that  he  insisted  that 
this  herd  be  taken  over  there.  I  remonstrated  against  this 
for  the  reason  that  this  herd  was  within  a  few  miles  of  our 
Home  Ranch  where  we  could  brand  it  in  two  days  and  turn  it 
loose  so  the  cattle  would  become  acquainted  with  the  range, 
feed,  water  and  shelter  before  the  storms  came.  Mr.  Carter 
begged  so  hard  that  I  consented  to  gratify  his  wish,  much 
against  my  better  judgment.  We  had  neither  corrals  nor 
branding  chute  at  Fox  Creek  and  two  weeks  would  be  re- 
quired to  build  them.  I  went  ahead  with  a  force  of  men  to  do 
this  work,  allowing  the  herd  to  follow  in  easy  drives.  It  took 
us  nearly  two  weeks  to  prepare  the  corrals  and  branding 
chute  and  the  day  we  had  them  finished  there  came  one  of  the 
worst  snowstorms  I  ever  saw.  Mr.  Carter  struck  for  the 
Home  Ranch  and  left  me  and  the  Texas  men  to  care  for  the 
cattle.  We  held  the  cattle  in  one  of  the  pockets  of  Fox 
Creek  Canon  that  night,  the  next  day  and  the  next  night.  Our 
Texas  men  were  freezing  and  the  cattle  commenced  to  die  on 
the  bed  and  herd  ground.  To  save  all  I  gave  orders  to  turn 
the  cattle  loose  without  our  ranch  brand.    This  made  General 

222 


Trails  of  Yesterday  223 

Coe  very  angry.  He  wrote  me  to  gather  up  the  cattle  and 
brand  all  I  could  of  them,  which  I  did  (about  two  hundred 
head),  against  my  better  judgment,  since  I  branded  perhaps 
twenty-five  head  belonging  to  other  cattlemen — some  of  Keith 
&  Barton's,  some  of  Bent  &  Evans',  Ed.  Welch's,  two  of  Ben 
Gallagher's,  one  of  Burke's  and  others. 

As  soon  as  I  found  this  out  I  notified  the  parties,  telling 
them  I  was  afraid  I  had  branded  a  few  of  their  cattle  but 
that  we  would  let  the  matter  rest  and  not  brand  any  more 
until  the  round-up  in  the  spring,  when  we  would  make  it 
right. 

In  the  spring  before  the  cattle  had  fairly  shed  off,  these 
parties,  whose  cattle  I  had  unintentionally  branded,  mustered 
up  a  good  sized  outfit,  came  to  the  ranch  and  said  they  wanted 
to  go  through  our  herd.  I  told  them  I  would  rather  they 
would  wait  until  the  cattle  had  shed  off  better.  Besides  I  told 
them  that  I  had  a  large  outfit  coming  from  the  south  with 
several  thousand  cattle  and  they  could  work  these  at  the  same 
time  as  soon  as  they  arrived. 

All  agreed  to  this  except  Keith  &  Barton.  They  in- 
sisted on  working  the  cattle  that  were  in  sight  on  the  bottom 
west  of  Fort  McPherson. 

I  had  only  one  cowboy  with  me  at  the  ranch,  John  D. 
Jones.  We  took  a  couple  of  good  horses  and  up  to  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening  the  combined  outfits  had  picked  up  some  four 
hundred  cattle,  many  of  which  were  ours,  and  cattle  (one 
thousand  steers)  that  we  were  holding  for  Post  &  Redfield 
of  Galesburg,  Illinois.  I  had  repeatedly  called  the  attention 
of  both  K.  and  B.  and  the  twelve  men  working  for  them  that 
they  had  many  cattle  in  the  bunch  that  did  not  belong  to  them. 
Mr.  B.  said  it  would  be  best  to  take  the  bunch  across  the  rivers 
(the  Channel  and  South  Platte),  which  were  very  high,  and 
put  it  in  the  stockyards  pens  that  night  and  I  could  go 
over  in  the  morning  and  bring  back  any  that  were  ours. 
I  told  him  I  could  do  that  but  instead  we  would  take  the  bunch 
to  the  ranch,  only  a  quarter  of    a    mile    away,    where    we 


224  Trails  of  Yesterday 

would  run  them  through  the  chute  and  what  belonged  to 
them  they  could  have.  They  would  not  agree  to  this  but  told 
their  men  to  start  the  bunch.  I  asked  the  other  cattlemen 
present  if  my  proposition  was  not  fair.  The  majority  said 
it  was,  but  K.  and  B.  insisted  on  taking  the  bunch.  I  told  both 
of  them  and  their  men  also  that  if  they  took  one  animal  of 
ours  or  any  that  we  claimed  they  would  have  to  do  so  over  my 
dead  body.  I  went  to  Jones  and  told  him  to  cut  out  every 
animal  that  he  thought  was  ours,  not  to  spare  his  horse  and 
that  I  would  stand  by  him  in  everything  he  did.  With  that 
I  started  the  ball  by  cutting  out  an  old  cow  that  was  blind  in 
one  eye  and  that  we  had  had  on  the  range  over  two  years. 
Mr.  B.  tried  to  bring  her  back  but  could  scarcely  keep  in 
sight  of  her.  When  he  returned  Jones  and  I  had  many 
others  out  of  the  bunch,  notwithstanding  that  K.  and  B. 
forces  were  trying  to  prevent  us.  Inside  of  an  hour  we  had 
the  bunch  pretty  well  cleaned,  including  some  belonging  to 
K.  and  B. 

I  saw  one  large,  black,  four-year-old  steer  that  belonged 
to  Post  &  Redfield;  thinking  I  would  leave  him  to  the  last 
as  he  was  very  wild,  I  finally  cut  him  out.  K.  cut  him  back. 
I  sent  him  out  again.  K.  tried  to  bring  him  back.  At  this 
I  pulled  my  revolver,  intending  to  kill  the  steer  rather  than 
let  him  return  to  the  bunch,  but  the  steer,  fighting  mad  by 
this  time,  started  for  the  open  prairie,  with  three  of  K.  and 
B.'s  cowmen  trying  to  head  him  for  the  river. 

B.  had  bitten  his  tongue  or  lip  so  the  blood  ran  down  his 
chin  and  K.  was  very  mad.  In  passing  me  K.  remarked  that 
I  was  losing  my  reputation.  To  this  I  answered,  "D —  your 
old  soul,  you  never  had  one  to  lose,"  and  suiting  the  action  to 
the  words,  I  rode  my  horse,  who  now  was  going  on  three 
legs,  square  into  Keith's  pony  and  sent  both  nearly  thirty  feet 
sprawling  on  the  ground. 

By  the  time  we  reached  the  channel  we  had  all  our  cattle 
out  of  the  bunch,  but  I  went  into  the  river  with  them  and  com- 
menced to  mill  the  bunch,  drowning  several  calves.     We  let 


Trails  of  Yesterday  225 

them  come  out  of  the  channel,  cross  the  island  and  watched 
them  carefully  as  they  went  over  the  bank  into  the  South 
Platte. 

All  were  in  the  river  when  Kerr  rode  up.  He  and  his 
outfit  had  seen  from  the  hills  the  commotion  we  were  making 
and  he  wanted  to  know  what  was  the  matter.  I  told  him 
nothing  except  that  some  of  the  men  present  were  trying  to 
steal  our  cattle.  Kerr  yelled,  "Show  me  one,"  and  plunged 
into  the  river.  I  told  him  I  thought  the  bunch  was  clean 
and  to  come  out  and  follow  me. 

The  three  men  who  took  the  black  steer  had  been  doing 
their  best  to  push  him  into  the  river,  but  the  steer  would  not  be 
pushed.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  now  on  the  fight.  We  rode 
up  to  them  and  told  them  we  had  nothing  to  say  to  them,  as 
they  had  done  their  duty  for  the  men  for  whom  they  were 
working,  but  we  would  take  the  steer  and  we  did. 

The  next  morning  I  went  to  North  Platte  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  Barton  in  our  attorney's  office.  He  had  cooled 
down  and  we  frankly  talked  matters  over.  The  attorney 
told  him  I  was  right  in  demanding  that  the  disputed  cattle 
should  be  run  through  our  chute. 

Heretofore  the  words  and  deeds  of  this  strong  cattle 
company  had  always  been  taken  for  law.  Might  made  right. 
Had  I  conceded  one  inch  to  these  men  our  brand  of  cattle 
would  have  shown  up  prominently  in  their  herds,  and  instead 
of  being  prima-facie  evidence  of  ownership,  would  have 
been  the  opposite — a  farce. 

I  had  no  further  trouble  with  these  gentlemen,  who,  from 
that  time,  respected  our  rights. 

Brave  and  faithful  John  Jones  did  his  duty.  He  helped 
me  win  this  uneven  battle  for  the  right.  Neither  of  our 
horses  were  worth  a  dollar  after  that  day's  work. 

Kerr's  outfit  had  again  been  absent  several  months,  pick- 
ing up  and  bringing  back  cattle,  many  of  which  were  found 
south  of  the  Republican  River.  I  had  received  no  word  from 
them  except  through  bands  of  Sioux  Indians,  who  occasionally 


226  Trails  of  Yesterday 

stopped  at  our  Home  Ranch  on  their  way  to  the  Rosebud  and 
Pine  Ridge  Agencies  from  their  buffalo  hunts.  I  had  be- 
come alarmed  for  the  safety  of  our  men  and  one  Sunday  I 
saddled  up  one  of  the  best  horses,  buckled  on  my  revolvers 
and  bowie  knife,  and  with  my  Winchester  rifle  and  field 
glasses,  I  told  Jones  I  was  going  to  take  a  ride  toward  the 
Medicine  Creek  to  see  if  I  could  see  anything  of  Kerr's  outfit. 

I  rode  within  a  few  miles  of  the  breaks  of  the  Medicine. 
I  saw  some  coyotes  and  wolves  and  one  lone  animal  stand- 
ing on  a  side  hill  by  itself.  I  could  not  make  out  with  my 
field  glasses  whether  it  was  a  cow  or  a  buffalo  and  concluded 
to  ride  closer.  I  found  it  to  be  a  cow  and  in  a  little  hollow 
below  several  wolves  were  devouring  her  calf.  I  left  the  poor 
mother,  who  seemed  to  appeal  to  me  to  save  her  offspring. 
I  would  like  to  have  done  so  but  knew  it  was  useless  to  drive 
her  away.    She  would  come  back  if  I  did. 

I  rode  up  on  a  high  hill  and  looked  the  country  care- 
fully over  with  my  field  glasses,  when  to  my  joy  I  saw  a 
mounted  party  of  about  eight  some  two  miles  northeast  of 
me.  I  decided  it  was  part  of  Kerr's  outfit  and  put  my  horse 
on  a  lope  towards  them  and  waved  my  hat  at  them.  They  had 
evidently  seen  me  and  were  waiting  for  me  to  come  to  them. 
When  not  quite  a  mile  from  them  I  discovered  they  were 
Indians  and  not  cowboys.  This  caused  me  to  stop  and  take  a 
quick  survey  of  the  surrounding  country  with  a  view  to  secur- 
ing the  best  position  I  could  in  case  of  an  attack.  I  knew  it 
would  not  do  to  run  away  from  them  or  show  that  I  was 
afraid.  They  being  between  me  and  the  Home  Ranch,  it 
would  have  been  an  easy  matter  to  cut  me  off.  I  finally  rode 
up  to  the  top  of  the  highest  hill  and  waited  for  them  to  come 
to  me.  My  horse  acted  foolishly  as  soon  as  he  scented  the 
Indians  and  would  not  stand  as  they  tried  to  approach  and 
shake  hands.  There  were  six  bucks  and  two  squaws.  In  the 
leader,  who  could  talk  a  little  "Pigeon  English,"  I  discovered 
my  old  friend,  Dull  Knife. 

He  told  me  he  had  just  come  up  from  his  people  in  the 


Trails  of  Yesterday  227 

south  and  was  going  to  visit  Red  Cloud,  Spotted  Tail  and 
other  Sioux  with  a  view  to  gaining  their  friendship  and  per- 
mission to  make  his  home  with  the  Oglala  Sioux.  He  said 
his  people  did  not  like  it  in  the  south,  that  quite  a  few  had 
died  and  if  they  had  to  live  there,  all  would  die. 

I  brought  them  to  the  Home  Ranch,  where  Jones  and 
I  gave  them  a  good  supper,  fed  their  ponies  and  allowed 
the  Indians  to  sleep  on  piles  of  hay  that  we  brought  in  the 
ranch. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning  I  thought  best  to  take 
Dull  Knife  and  his  party  to  Major  Brown,  then  in  command 
of  the  North  Platte  Garrison.  That  officer  put  them  in  the 
Guard  House  and  virtually  made  them  prisoners  until  he 
could  get  orders  from  the  Department  commander  at  Omaha. 
I  told  Major  Brown  that  Dull  Knife  and  his  party  were  good 
Indians,  going  on  a  friendly  visit  to  the  Oglalas  and  I  asked 
that  they  be  given  some  rations  and  allowed  to  proceed  on 
their  journey,  which  was  done  after  going  through  much  red 
tape. 

After  being  detained  a  week  by  Major  Brown,  they 
were  escorted  to  the  south  bank  of  the  North  Platte  River, 
where  I  bade  old  Dull  Knife  good-bye.  He  said  that  he  re- 
membered my  giving  him  my  dinner  at  the  crossing  of  the 
Dry  Fork  of  the  Cheyenne  River  six  years  before  when  on  our 
way  to  Fort  Phil  Kearny.  He  remembered  all  the  in- 
cidents and  told  about  one  of  our  bullwhackers  stealing  a 
buckskin  from  one  of  his  tribe.  Poor  old  Dull  Knife!  He 
had  a  good  heart  and  died  a  martyr  to  save  his  tribe  from 
death  and  starvation.  Read  Edgar  Beecher  Bronson's  story, 
"A  Finish  Fight  for  a  Birthright,"  if  you  wish  to  have  the 
facts. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Hardships  of  the  Cattle  Business — The  Disastrous  Prairie  Fire  of 

1874 — "Buffalo  White"   Takes  an  Icewater  Bath — Cattle 

Companies  Become  Numerous — "Buck"  Taylor's 

Threat — How  "Sleepy"  Was  Made  an 

Early  Riser 

IN  the  fall  of  1874,  before  we  had  gathered  and  shipped 
our  beef  cattle,  the  worst  prairie  fire  I  ever  saw  swept 

over  our  range  and  adjacent  country  from  Plum  Creek 
on  the  east  to  Julesburg  on  the  west  and  from  the  Republican 
on  the  south  to  the  Platte  on  the  north.  It  was  said  that  the 
Indians  set  the  fire  to  drive  the  buffaloes  north  of  the  Platte 
River.  I  think  it  was  the  work  of  careless  hunters — white  men 
hunting  buffalo. 

I  was  out  with  fifty  men  with  camp  outfit  for  over  two 
weeks,  trying  to  stop  it.  None  of  us  had  our  clothes  off 
during  the  entire  time.  We  slept  by  spells.  Sometimes  the 
men  would  drop  down  in  their  tracks  and  fall  asleep  before 
they  knew  it.  We  fought  the  fire  from  the  Medicine  Creek 
to  Red  Willow  Creek  and  back  to  the  Platte  River.  At  one 
time  it  looked  as  though  we  could  save  a  big  half  of  the  range, 
but  changing  winds  and  back  fires  springing  up  behind  dis- 
appointed us.  At  night,  with  no  wind,  we  could  extinguish 
many  miles  of  it. 

I  killed  two  horses,  cut  their  heads  off,  split  them  down 
the  back  and  with  lariats  attached  to  a  hind  and  a  front  foot 
of  the  carcass,  two  cowboys,  one  on  either  side,  dragged  them 
over  the  line  of  fire,  with  ropes  fastened  to  the  horns  of  the 
saddles.  They  could  put  out  many  miles  of  fire,  when  fol- 
lowed up  by  a  couple  of  men  with  wet  sacks  to  extinguish  any 
little  fire  that  was  missed. 

This  fire  fighting  at  night  in  a  broken,  hilly  country 
like  Well,  Moran  and  Fox  Creek  canons  was  rather  dangerous 
work.    I  remember  a  German  and  myself  were  busily  putting 

228 


Trails  of  Yesterday  229 

out  a  line  of  fire  one  night  near  the  breaks  of  Moran  canon. 
The  German  was  a  few  feet  ahead  of  me,  when  he  stepped  out 
of  sight  in  an  instant.  He  had  put  out  his  string  of  fire  to  the 
edge  of  a  deep  canon.  I  hallooed  to  him  and  after  a  time  a 
faint  voice  answered  back,  "I'm  here."  Yes,  he  was  there, 
some  sixty  feet  below  me  astride  a  cedar  stump.  It  was  a 
miracle  that  he  had  not  broken  his  neck. 

After  all  this  hard  work  and  great  expense,  the  range  was 
so  solidly  burned  that  I  knew  it  would  be  impossible  to 
winter  our  cattle  on  it.  I  immediately  set  to  gathering  all  the 
fat  steers  three  years  old  and  upwards,  and  dry  fat  cows, 
enough  to  load  four  trains  of  thirty  cars  each  for  Chicago, 
going  with  the  first  one  myself,  the  others  following  one  day 
apart,  one  in  charge  of  E.  W.  Murphy,  one  in  charge  of  S.  P. 
Baker  and  one  in  charge  of  another  trusty  friend. 

I  picked  up  at  Columbus  and  took  with  me  to  Chicago  ex- 
State  Senator  Guy  Barnum.  We  stopped  a  few  moments 
early  one  morning  at  Grinnell,  Iowa.  Mr.  Barnum  wanted  a 
drink  to  warm  him  up,  ran  to  the  nearest  drug  store  but  failed 
to  get  it  and  came  hurrying  back  to  the  train  very  angry.  He 
told  the  conductor  he  was  nearly  dying  for  a  drink.  The  con- 
ductor directed  him  to  the  same  drug  store  and  told  him 
to  ask  for  "peanuts."  He  did  and  came  back  smiling,  with  a 
fair-sized  bottle  and  said,  in  thanking  the  conductor  for  hold- 
ing the  train  for  him,  that  Iowa  was  not  nearly  so  bad  a 
state  as  he  thought  it  was. 

I  fed  my  train  of  cattle  at  Geneseo  and  told  Colonel  Flan- 
nigan,  who  was  running  the  yards,  that  we  had  three  other 
trains  following,  and  asked  him  as  a  special  favor  to  see  that 
the  cattle  were  fed  and  properly  rested,  especially  the  third 
train  in  care  of  Mr.  Baker.  I  told  him  that  Mr.  Baker  was 
a  very  nice  gentleman  who  did  not  talk  much.  He  said  he 
would  take  the  best  of  care  of  our  shipments  and  I  think  he 
did.  I  saw  him  on  the  depot  platform  on  my  return  and  he 
told  me  he  had  met  the  Mr.  Baker,  who  I  said  was  bashful 
and  not  much  of  a  talker,  but  that  he  had  talked  one  man  to 
death  and  the  other  was  in  the  hospital  slowly  recovering. 


230  Trails  of  Yesterday 

At  the  stock  yards  in  Chicago  I  ran  across  Guy  C.  Barton 
(referred  to  in  the  preceding  chapter)  in  a  barber  shop, 
where  I  went  to  have  my  boots  shined.  When  the  young 
bootblack  had  finished  one  boot,  Mr.  Barton  paid  him  half 
a  dollar  not  to  shine  the  other;  and  he  would  not,  notwith- 
standing that  I  offered  him  a  dollar  to  shine  it.  Mr.  Barton 
kept  close  to  me  down  town  and  I  could  not  get  that  dirty  boot 
shined  for  love  or  money  while  with  him. 

Before  leaving  Chicago,  Mr.  Murphy  and  I  had  a  great 
time  with  good  old  Judge  Baker,  to  whom  we  showed  all  the 
sights  we  could.  He  said  he  never  had  such  a  time  in  his  life, 
and  I  believed  him. 

While  I  was  absent  in  Chicago  disposing  of  the  beef 
cattle,  I  had  the  men  gather  up  all  our  cattle  off  the  burned 
range  and  hold  them  on  large  patches  of  grass  that  we  had 
saved  near  the  Platte  River  bottom.  I  had  also  sent  two  of 
our  trustiest,  most  intelligent  men  to  prospect  the  country  on 
the  north  side  of  the  North  Platte  River  with  a  view  to 
moving  our  cattle  over  there,  where  the  Indians  were  still 
numerous  and  stealing  stock.  It  was  a  risky  move  but  im- 
perative. It  would  mean  the  loss  of  all  our  cattle  to  remain 
and  winter  on  the  burned  range.  I  had  made  a  hurried  trip 
into  the  Birdwood  country  and  made  up  my  mind  where  to 
take  the  cattle  and  where  to  turn  them  loose. 

We  gathered  up  all  we  could  and,  though  it  was  the  early 
part  of  November,  slush  ice  was  floating  in  the  North  Platte 
River  the  day  we  were  ready  to  cross.  We  waited  until  nearly 
noon  before  attempting  to  cross  the  several  thousand  head 
we  had  in  the  bunch.  In  the  first  two  attempts  we  failed  to 
get  the  cattle  into  the  river,  which  was  not  only  cold  but  deep, 
swimming  the  small  cattle.  We  finally  got  a  bunch  of  work 
steers  on  the  lead  and  into  the  river  and  crowded  other  cattle 
after  them  as  fast  as  we  dared  and  by  sundown  we  had  the 
bunch  across. 

It  took  every  man  we  had  mounted  to  hold  the  cattle  that 
night.  This  was  a  long,  hard  night's  work  in  our  wet  clothes 
and  some  of  us  without  overcoats.     Some  of  the  cowboys, 


Trails  of  Yesterday  231 

like  myself,  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  breakfast  at  five 
o'clock  the  morning  before.  We  managed  to  get  a  change  of 
horses  after  crossing  the  river,  but  could  not  leave  the  cattle 
long  enough  to  eat  supper.  None  of  the  cattle  got  away, 
though  many  of  the  calves  had  not  found  their  mothers. 
After  grazing  the  cattle  a  couple  of  hours,  we  started  them 
on  the  trail  of  the  Birdwood  Creek  country.  We  camped  on 
the  west  side  of  the  creek  that  night,  which  was  cold.  In  fact, 
part  of  the  creek  was  frozen  over  the  next  morning.  By 
noon  we  had  the  cattle  over  the  big  sand-hill  and  over  in  the 
Riverside  bottom,  where  the  grass  was  nearly  over  their 
backs.  Here  we  turned  them  loose,  not  knowing  but  that 
the  Indians  might  drive  the  cattle  off  or  set  fire  to  the  grass 
on  the  bottom.  We  noticed  several  signal  fires  in  the  country, 
north  and  northwest  of  us. 

We  returned  to  our  little  camp  on  the  strip  of  land  be- 
tween the  Platte  River  and  the  Birdwood  Creek.  Wood  was 
very  scarce  on  that  part  of  the  Birdwood  Creek  and  had  it 
not  been  for  the  little  we  brought  with  us,  we  would  have 
gone  to  bed  on  cold  biscuits  and  water. 

I  had  sent  "Buffalo  White,"  who  was  a  great  admirer  of 
"Buffalo  Bill"  (imitating  his  ways  and  actions  on  every  pos- 
sible occasion,  even  to  allowing  his  hair  to  grow  long),  to 
the  Home  Ranch  for  a  load  of  hay  and  provisions.  White 
arrived  at  the  crossing  of  the  Birdwood  Creek  late  the  follow- 
ing night,  at  which  time  the  creek  had  frozen  over  but  not 
hard  enough  to  hold  the  mules  and  wagons.  I  told  White  to 
leave  his  wagon  one  side  to  the  wind  and  tie  his  mules  on 
the  leeward  side  to  protect  them  from  the  cold  wind  that 
was  blowing.  I  then  told  him  to  follow  the  creek  down  to 
a  point  where  we  would  hold  a  lantern,  and  then  for  him  to 
crawl  across  on  his  hands  and  knees  but  not  to  get  up  on  his 
feet.  I  suppose  he  thought  playing  snake  across  the  creek 
was  neither  swift  nor  manly  and  not  like  Buffalo  Bill.  When 
about  three-fourths  of  the  way  across  and  over  the  deepest 
channel  he  got  up  on  his  feet  and  went  through  the  ice  nearly 
up  to  his  neck.     We  got  some  ropes,  pulled  him  ashore  and 


232  Trails  of  Yesterday 

rushed  him  to  the  tent  where  we  had  to  cut  his  frozen 
clothes  off  in  order  to  put  on  dry  ones.  After  a  vigorous 
rubbing  and  a  big  drink  of  whiskey  from  a  bottle  that  he  had 
thoughtfully  brought  back  with  him,  and  after  drinking  two 
cups  of  hot  coffee  and  eating  a  good  supper  he  soon  became 
himself  again.  I  told  him  about  Buffalo  Bill's  falling  into 
a  deeper  hole  than  that  at  the  Home  Ranch  and  of  Bill's 
thinking  nothing  of  it.  I  did  not  tell  White  that  this  ducking 
was  in  the  summer  time.  This  story  gave  White  fresh 
courage  and  after  reciting  the  incidents  of  his  trip,  by  the 
time  our  little  Indian  camp  fire  had  died  out  Buffalo  White 
had  fallen  asleep  and  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just.  I  had 
him  sleep  in  my  bed  and  another  cowboy  on  the  other  side  of 
him  to  keep  him  warm. 

On  the  creek  bottom  we  found  some  sod  that  was  springy 
and  not  frozen.  This  we  plowed  up  and  commenced  the 
erection  of  a  sod  stable  and  in  less  than  two  weeks  we  had  a 
comfortable  stable,  also  a  small  sod  shack  to  cook  and  sleep  in. 

I  had  certain  herders  go  around  the  cattle,  which  had  not 
yet  drifted  out  of  the  bottom  to  any  great  extent. 

After  getting  matters  in  shape  so  the  men  and  horses 
could  be  comfortable,  I  took  a  couple  of  men  and  two  pack 
animals  and  prospected  the  country  up  the  Platte  bottom 
as  far  as  White  Tail,  where  I  decided  to  put  a  west  camp. 
I  then  went  up  the  Birdwood  Creek  to  its  forks,  followed  the 
west  fork  to  its  head,  then  followed  up  the  east  fork  into 
what  we  called  the  Lake  country,  over  to  the  heads  of  the  two 
forks  of  the  Dismal  River,  where  I  found  lots  of  good  cedar 
timber.  Numerous  springs  and  little  creeks  gushed  out  of 
the  foothills  in  the  entire  country  west  of  the  Birdwood  Creek 
up  to  the  White  Tail.  The  two  Birdwoods  were  also  fed 
by  springs,  the  water  was  soft  and  good,  even  into  the  Lake 
country.  The  country  was  covered  with  a  heavy  growth  of 
grass.  Game  of  all  kinds  was  plentiful — deer,  elk,  buffalo, 
ducks,  wild  geese,  and  prairie  chicken.  It  was  to  me  an  ideal 
cattle  country  with  plenty  of  shelter,  and  I  determined,  after 
looking  it  over,  that  it  should  be  our  range.     We  saw  signs 


Trails  of  Yesterday  233 

of  recent  Indian  camps  but  happened  to  come  across  none. 
Hay  could  be  put  up  on  all  the  river  bottoms  and  in  nearly 
every  valley  in  the  Lake  country.  On  this  trip  I  located  our 
future  ranches  in  order  to  control  a  range  about  twenty-four 
miles  east  and  west  and  about  sixty  to  seventy-five  miles  north 
and  south. 

Our  cattle  went  through  the  winter  on  their  new  range  in 
good  shape  without  any  hay.  Small,  thieving  bands  of 
Sioux  Indians  came  down  on  us  during  the  winter.  They 
killed  some  cattle  and  took  several  head  of  our  horses  but  did 
not  kill  any  of  our  men. 

The  following  summer  the  Keystone  Cattle  Company  with 
W.  A.  Paxton  as  president,  located  a  range  west  of  us  ranging 
from  White  Tail  Creek  on  the  west.  The  Bosler  Brothers  and 
Dennis  Sheedy  located  a  range  between  the  Blue  Creek  and 
Sidney  bridge  across  the  North  Platte  River,  and  other  outfits 
later  located  a  range  west  of  Bosler  Brothers;  hence  ours,  the 
Circle  outfit,  was  the  pioneer  cattle  company  to  locate  north 
of  the  North  Platte  River.  Between  the  Platte  rivers  the 
country  was  easy  of  access  with  less  danger  of  Indian  depre- 
dations and  no  Platte  rivers  to  ford  or  swim.  Many  cattle 
outfits  had  established  ranges  west  of  the  forks  of  the  Platte 
rivers  well  up  to  Fort  Laramie  on  the  North  Platte  River 
and  nearly  to  Denver  on  the  South  Platte  River. 

Among  the  early  cattle  outfits  between  the  Platte  rivers 
may  be  mentioned  Keith  &  Barton,  Russell  Watts,  Shiedley 
Bros.,  Tusler  Bros.,  Iliff  and  Moore  Bros.,  so  that  in  1885  and 
later,  when  the  cattle  business  was  in  its  zenith,  nearly  every 
foot  of  range  country  where  stock  could  secure  grass  and  water 
was  made  use  of.  The  cattle  and  horse  raising  business  grew 
immensely  until  hard  winters  with  no  hay  to  feed  the  range 
cattle  put  on  the  brakes  and  put  some  cattle  outfits  out  of 
business.  It  caused  other  cattle  companies  to  begin  to  provide 
hay  for  winter  feeding.  These  companies  made  a  success,  but 
those  who  did  not  provide  for  winter  feeding  made  a  failure 
and  sooner  or  later  had  to  quit  the  business. 

We  were  among  the  early  cattle  companies  that  put  up 


234  Trails  of  Yesterday 

all  the  hay  they  could — some  ten  to  twelve  thousand  tons  on 
our  North  Platte  River  bottoms,  two  to  three  thousand  tons 
at  our  Home  Ranch,  besides  what  we  could  put  up  in  the 
Fox  Creek  canons  for  our  native  cattle  kept  in  that  vicinity, 
and  at  Big  Baldy  camp  where  we  wintered  our  male  animals. 

While  we  did  much  of  this  work  of  putting  up  hay  our- 
selves, we  also  hired  a  large  quantity  put  up  in  stack  by  the 
ton.  Ted  McEvoy  would  usually  have  charge  of  our  hay 
outfit  on  the  north  side.  At  times  he  ran  twenty-five  mowers 
and  twelve  to  fifteen  rakes.  Much  of  the  hay  on  the  north 
side  was  put  up  in  two  hundred  to  four  hundred  ton  shocks, 
rounded  up  with  forks. 

Poor  old  Ted,  who  has  also  passed  away,  would  think 
nothing  of  going  into  a  corral  of  bronchos  and  selecting  his 
mowing  and  raking  teams  out  of  the  wild  herd.  He  would 
often  have  to  throw  the  horses  to  harness  them.  They  would 
then  be  paired  off,  hitched  to  a  wagon  and  the  next  day  put 
on  a  mower  or  a  rake.  Runaways  would  occur  and  some 
accidents  happened,  but  nothing  serious  to  either  man  or 
beast.  Sometimes  a  rake  team  would  cause  a  little  excitement 
by  rolling  the  raker,  who  happened  to  lose  his  seat  on  the 
rake,  along  the  ground  and  stripping  the  clothes  off  him. 
Whenever  a  team  was  seen  to  run  off  with  a  mower  or  a  rake, 
a  yell  would  come  from  the  other  employees:  "Stay  with 
him !    Stay  with  him !  1" 

The  hay  put  up  in  shock  in  this  way  in  the  many  different 
bottom  pastures  that  were  fenced  off  from  the  range  cost  us 
about  twenty-five  cents  to  thirty  cents  per  ton. 

After  the  beef  shipment  in  the  fall  and  branding  of  all 
the  calves,  the  larger  calves  would  be  separated  from  their 
mothers  and,  when  weaned,  would  be  thrown  into  one  of 
these  hay  bottom  pastures.  Any  weak  cows  pulled  down  in 
flesh  by  sucking  calves  during  the  winter  would  also  be 
gathered  and  put  in  other  hay  pastures.  All  males  would 
be  gathered  on  the  last  round-up  and  taken  to  their  winter 
quarters  at  Mile  camp  or  Ball  Bluff  camp.  The  same  rule 
would  be  followed  with  the  native  cattle  on  the  Fox  Creek 


Trails  of  Yesterday  235 

ranch.  If  the  winter  became  severe,  we  would  ride  through 
the  cattle,  pick  up  any  thin  ones,  then  put  the  calves  and  other 
cattle  picked  up  earlier  into  fresh  hay  pastures  and  turn  the 
last  gathered  cattle  into  the  hay  pasture  that  the  calves  were 
taken  out  of.  Toward  spring  we  would  rake  several  hay 
shocks  into  one,  on  which  we  would  throw  a  little  salt; 
then  the  cattle  would  eat  all  the  hay  so  the  hay  meadows  were 
kept  clean  all  the  time,  much  to  the  surprise  of  Mr.  Carter 
(a  native  of  New  Hampshire)  who  argued  that  the  hay 
bottoms  would  all  be  ruined  on  account  of  the  butts  of  hay 
left  on  the  meadows,  but  they  were  not.  By  this  method  our 
total  losses  would  not  average  three  per  cent.  We  could, 
with  free  range  at  this  time,  raise  a  three-year-old  steer  for 
twelve  dollars.  Of  course  we  had  to  contend  with  severe 
winter  storms  and  sometimes  blizzards  and  prairie  fires. 

I  remember  one  blizzard  that  drifted  sixteen  hundred 
mixed  cattle  through  several  wire  fences  and  over  snow  banks 
into  the  North  Platte  River.  Four  hundred  head,  mostly  year- 
lings, being  unable  to  climb  the  high  river  bank,  drowned. 

Again,  although  we  would  take  every  precaution  to  keep 
fire  out  of  our  range  by  plowing  some  two  hundred  fifty  miles 
of  fire  guards  of  four  to  six  furrows  each,  about  two  hundred 
feet  apart,  and  burning  off  the  grass  between  these  fire  guards, 
yet  sometimes  careless  white  men,  trappers  and  hunters  would 
allow  fires  to  get  away.  Scarcely  a  night  passed  when  the 
grass  on  the  range  was  burning,  whether  at  my  home  or  at 
some  of  our  ranches,  that  I  did  not  get  up  once  or  twice 
during  the  night,  if  I  did  not  sleep  where  I  could  look  over 
the  horizon  fringing  our  ranges.  If  there  was  a  light  in  the 
sky  I  could  tell  the  locality  of  the  fire,  and  many  times  I  have 
started  out  in  the  middle  of  the  night  with  a  wagon-load  of 
men,  sacks,  water  barrels,  plows  and  all  the  cowboys  I 
could  mount,  putting  the  team  on  a  lope  to  head  off  or  put  out 
some  ditch  fire. 

Had  we  had  the  telephone  over  the  ranges  and  connect- 
ing the  ranches  in  those  days,  what  a  large  amount  of  work 
and  anxiety  it  would  have  saved  us ! 


236  Trails  of  Yesterday 

The  foremen  and  men  at  every  one  of  our  ranches  had 
positive  orders  to  be  always  on  the  lookout  for  fires  and,  when 
discovered,  to  hasten  to  put  them  out. 

In  the  big  prairie  fire  that  burned  off  our  range  in  1874, 
which  started  between  Willow  and  Medicine  creeks,  and  was 
driven  by  a  high  south  wind,  I  happened  to  be  at  our  Curtis 
Creek  ranch  when  I  saw  the  fire  spring  up.  After  telling  one 
man  what  to  do  to  save  the  ranches  and  our  stock  grazing  in 
that  section  of  country,  I  saddled  up  the  best  horse  we  had 
there  and  started  for  our  Home  Ranch,  foolishly  without 
matches.  The  fire  jumped  the  Medicine  Creek  and  crowded 
on  the  heels  of  my  poor  panting  horse.  Several  times  the 
fire  came  so  close  to  me  that  the  intense  heat  and  great  clouds 
of  smoke  almost  enveloped  me.  Sometimes  I  wished  that  I 
had  climbed  a  tree  and  turned  my  horse  loose,  but  the  thought 
of  losing  our  Home  Ranch  gave  me  courage  and  impelled 
me  to  go  on.  I  got  to  the  ranch  a  few  minutes  ahead  of  the 
tongue  of  the  fire  and  with  the  force  of  men  we  had  at  the 
ranch  managed  to  save  the  buildings  but  lost  some  of  our 
fences  and  corrals.  I  had  scarcely  broken  a  lope,  except  in 
going  over  deep  holes  and  steep  canons,  from  the  Medicine 
to  the  Platte  via  the  head  of  Fox  Creek  and  Moran  Canon. 

To  add  to  our  troubles,  the  western  cattlemen  in  eastern 
Wyoming  and  Colorado  and  western  Nebraska,  whose 
strong  (principally  steer)  cattle  had  drifted  on  us  in  the 
winter  storms,  would  usually  insist  on  commencing  the  round- 
up shortly  after  the  first  of  May,  when  our  cattle,  consisting 
of  what  would  be  called  a  "she  herd,"  would  be  at  their 
weakest.  To  prevent  this  imposition  and  damage  to  our 
cattle  in  that  vicinity,  mild  remonstrance  having  failed,  I 
swore  out  over  sixty  warrants,  and  had  many  of  our  own 
and  neighboring  cowboys  working  at  adjoining  ranches  sworn 
in  and  deputized  to  serve  the  warrants  under  the  direction  of 
Sheriff  Groner  of  Lincoln  County.  This  action  bluffed  these 
representatives,  with  the  result  that  the  round-up  was  post- 
poned twenty  days.  After  this,  we  cattle  owners  at  the  east  end 
had  something  to  say  as  to  what  date  the  round-up  should 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


237 


238  Trails  of  Yesterday 

commence  on  the  east  end  of  the  range  country  without 
damage  to  our  cattle. 

It  is  said  that  Buck  Taylor  and  another  cowboy  rode 
up  to  a  bunch  of  western  representatives,  all  heavily  armed, 
riding  near  the  head  of  the  Dismal  River,  where  the  round- 
up was  scheduled  to  commence  work,  and  asked  them  what 
their  business  was.  They  replied  that  they  had  come  to 
attend  the  round-up  and  told  what  cattle  companies  they 
represented.  Buck  told  them  in  very  plain  language  that 
the  first  man  that  started  to  round  up  a  "critter"  would  be 
killed.  The  representatives  rode  away,  whispering  to  them- 
selves: "That's  Bratt,  that's  Bratt."  I  did  not  know  I  had 
such  a  reputation  until  I  was  asked  by  some  of  the  cattle 
owners  who  sent  these  representatives  why  I  had  threatened 
to  kill  them  if  they  started  the  round-up  at  that  time.  I  told 
these  owners  that  I  was  a  law-abiding  citizen  and  was  only 
seeking  to  protect  our  interests  and  did  not  remember  of 
threatening  to  kill  any  one.  Later  they  found  out  that  Buck 
Taylor  and  not  I  had  told  their  men  that. 

During  round-ups  we  had  to  cross  the  North  and  the 
South  Platte  rivers  occasionally,  even  when  high,  the  few 
bridges  at  this  time  being  many  miles  apart.  Desiring  to 
attend  a  round-up  between  the  rivers  at  a  point  a  few  miles 
east  of  Paxton  station,  we  decided  to  cross  the  river,  which 
was  very  high,  about  one  mile  east  of  Cedar  Creek,  but  owing 
to  the  high,  steep  banks  we  could  not  get  our  horses  into  the 
river.  We,  twelve  cowboys  and  I,  were  about  ready  to  give 
up  the  idea  of  crossing  at  that  particular  point  when  I  asked 
the  cowboys  if  they  would  follow  me.  They  all  answered 
they  would  except  one  young  man,  who  remarked  that  he 
was  ready  and  willing  to  follow  but  wanted  some  of  us  to 
stay  by  him  in  event  he  went  under,  as  he  said:  "I  can't 
swim."  We  told  him  we  would  see  that  he  got  through  all 
right.  I  slackened  my  latigo  straps,  rode  back  about  one 
hundred  fifty  yards  from  the  bank  and  put  my  horse  on  a 
fast  run  and  before  he  knew  it,  we  were  both  out  of  sight  in 
swimming  water.    The  others  followed  as  fast  as  they  could 


"Buck"  Taylor  {Later  a  Rough    Rider  in 
Buffalo  Bill's  Wild  West  Show) 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


239 


come,  even  the  young  cowboy  who  said  he  could  not  swim. 
I  had  put  two  expert  "water  dogs"  in  charge  of  him  and  he 
came  through  without  being  washed  out  of  the  saddle  and 
was  proud  of  his  achievement.  A  camera  focused  on  us 
about  the  time  we  all  struck  the  water  would  have  made  an 
interesting  picture.  We  had  to  swim  about  half  the  width 
of  the  river,  which  at  the  point  where  we  jumped  the  bank 
was  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  mile  wide. 

We  gathered  a  number  of  cattle  and  put  them  in  a  bunch 
that  was  going  to  be  crossed  at  the  mouth  of  Blue  Creek.  We 


How  Sleepy  Was  Made  An  Early  Riser 

recrossed  the  river  west  of  Paxton.    The  tenderfoot  covered 
himself  with  glory. 

I  here  relate  how  we  cured  a  cowboy  who  would  not  get 
up  when  called. 

We  were  in  camp  on  the  West  Birdwood  Creek,  near  the 
big  spring.  All  the  men  were  up,  had  had  breakfast  and  were 
ready  for  instructions  for  the  day's  work  except  one  man, 
nicknamed  "Sleepy."  He  had  been  called  but  did  not  get  up. 
I  called  a  couple  of  mounted  cowboys  and  told  them  to  quickly 
fasten  the  ends  of  their  lariats,  one  to  each  corner  of  the 
opening  of  the  "paulin,"  near  the  sleeper's  head,  and  when 
fastened,  proceed  on  a  quick  run,  with  the  lariats  around  the 
horns  of  the  saddles,  down  the  steep  bank  of  the  creek,  then 


240  Trails  of  Yesterday 

slowly  through  the  creek  in  order  to  give  "Sleepy"  the  benefit 
of  a  good  bath — the  water  in  the  West  Birdwood  Creek  at 
this  point  was  two  to  four  feet  deep — then  pull  him  gently 
up  the  creek  bank  and  leave  him  with  his  saddle  horse.  All  of 
which  was  quickly  carried  out  to  the  disgust  of  "Sleepy,"  who 
never  had  to  be  called  twice  to  get  up  after  this  while  working 
for  the  Circle  outfit. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

Citizen  Duties  in  Addition  to  the  Cattle  Business — Swim  the  River  to 

Elect  a    Teacher — A   Snake   in  a    Tobacco    Pocket — Two 

Hotheads — Ogallala  in  the  Early  Days — Honorable 

Cattlemen 

DURING  this  strenuous  time  I  was  not  unmindful  of  my 
obligations  and  duties  as  an  American  citizen.  My 
friends  insisted  on  putting  my  name  on  the  Democratic 
ticket  as  a  candidate  for  the  legislature.  I  am  afraid  I  made 
a  poor  candidate  since  I  did  not  want  the  office,  neither  could 
I  discharge  its  duties,  if  elected,  without  neglecting  my  own 
and  those  entrusted  to  me  by  others.  I  took  no  part  in  the 
canvass  of  the  district,  while  my  competitor  went  over  every 
foot  of  it.  I  was  pleased  when  the  votes  were  counted  show- 
ing my  opponent  a  twenty-two  majority. 

I  took  interest  in  our  schools  and  churches,  contributing 
liberally  towards  their  establishment  and  support.  I  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Education  of  North  Platte 
two  terms,  serving  one  term  with  Frank  Reardon,  James 
Belton,  Morgan  Davis,  James  Reynolds  and  Nels  Nicholls. 
The  question  came  up  about  hiring  Miss  Graves  again  as  a 
teacher.  Miss  Graves  afterwards  became  Mrs.  Eells.  Some 
members  of  the  Board  objected  to  her  because  she  danced. 
To  me  this  objection  seemed  narrow — very  narrow.  The 
vote  stood  three  and  three.  Those  who  opposed  waited  until 
James  Reynolds  was  in  Texas  and  the  writer  one  hundred 
twenty-five  miles  west  on  the  North  River  round-up,  when  one 
day  M.  C.  Keith  sent  me  word  that  there  was  going  to  be  a 
school-board  meeting  that  night  and  if  I  wanted  to  save  Miss 
Graves  I  must  be  present.  I  received  the  message  at  8  :oo 
A.  m.  The  man  bringing  the  word  had  ridden  hard  all 
night,  changing  horses  at  the  Keystone  Ranch.  I  picked  the 
best  horse  in  our  bunch,  turned  the  work  over  to  our  foreman 
and  it  was  not  long  before  I  had  left  McCulligan's  Butte, 

241 


242  Trails  of  Yesterday 

south  of  the  North  Platte  River,  behind  me,  I  do  not  think 
I  broke  a  lope  for  ten  miles.  The  river  was  bank  full, 
covered  with  froth  and  foam  in  the  many  swift,  deep  chan- 
nels and  much  driftwood  coming  down.  I  rode  down 
opposite  the  Seven  Crook  Ranch,  but  the  boat  was  on  the 
south  side.  I  came  on  to  the  Keystone  Ranch  to  meet  with 
the  same  ill  luck — the  boat  was  on  the  south  side,  hence  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  take  to  the  river.  My  good,  faith- 
ful horse  was  about  all  in  and  no  saddle  horses  in  sight  at 
the  Keystone  Ranch.  I  loosened  my  cinches  and  started 
across  the  water.  It  was  deep  in  places  on  the  north  half 
of  the  river  but  became  deeper  as  I  neared  the  south  bank. 
Old  "Babe"  went  under  twice;  the  current  was  too  swift 
for  him  and  threw  him  on  his  side  and  me  out  of  the  saddle 
for  a  moment.  We  both  floated  down  some  distance  under 
the  bank,  finally  to  float  in  a  sand  draw,  where  I  was  not 
sorry  to  get  on  terra  firma  once  more.  I  urged  my  horse 
forward  all  I  dared.  I  was  greatly  pleased  as  I  clipped  off 
the  last  two  miles  on  the  down  hill  toward  Ogallala  to  see 
a  freight  train  standing  on  the  track  ready  to  pull  out.  I 
waved  my  hat  to  the  engineer,  who  saw  me  coming.  He 
guessed  my  purpose  and  after  whistling  and  opening  the 
throttle  a  little,  started  the  train  slowly.  I  rode  along  the 
side  of  it,  jumped  off  my  horse,  turned  him  loose  and  swung 
on  the  side  of  a  freight  car.  I  called  to  a  friend  to  take  my 
horse  to  the  livery  barn,  climbed  upon  the  freight  car  and 
walked  back  to  the  caboose.  I  knew  the  conductor  and  ex- 
plained to  him  my  haste  to  reach  North  Platte  and  before  we 
were  six  miles  out  of  Ogallala  I  realized  that  the  little,  old 
freight  train  of  nineteen  cars,  pulled  by  one  of  those  little 
Giant  engines  of  the  600  class,  was  in  a  mad  race  of  about 
thirty  miles  an  hour.  Without  waiting  for  anything  to  eat 
or  a  change  of  dry  clothes,  I  rushed  down  to  the  board  meet- 
ing, entering  as  they  were  having  the  roll  called  as  to  whether 
Miss  Nellie  Graves  should  be  hired  as  a  teacher.  I  voted 
yes.  The  tally  stood  two  and  two — a  tie — with  two  members 
absent.    They  had  expected  one  of  these  to  be  present  but  he 


Trails  of  Yesterday  243 

failed  to  show  up.  They  did  not  look  for  me.  I  dropped  in 
like  a  clap  of  thunder  from  a  clear  sky.  The  friends  of  Miss 
Graves  called  a  mass  meeting,  at  which,  while  no  ink  wells 
or  law  books  were  thrown  at  each  other  as  happened  some- 
times, some  very  plain  language  was  expressed.  Good  Alex 
Stewart  was  chairman  of  the  meeting,  which  ended  by  the 
passage  of  a  resolution  instructing  the  school  board  to  en- 
gage Miss  Graves  as  teacher  for  the  ensuing  year,  and  that 
dancing  was  no  detriment  to  her  as  a  teacher.  This  settled, 
I  took  the  first  train  for  Ogallala  and  leading  "Babe,"  crossed 
the  river  in  a  boat,  at  the  Seven  Crook  Ranch,  where  a  few 
miles  above  I  met  the  round-up  boys  returning  with  our  stray 
cattle. 

Colonel  E.  D.  Webster,  former  editor  of  the  Omaha 
Republican  and  during  the  Civil  War  private  secretary  to 
William  H.  Seward,  accompanied  us  on  one  of  these  round- 
ups in  the  interest  of  himself  and  Mrs.  Randall,  who  jointly 
owned  the  "H"  brand. 

The  different  outfits  were  camped  along  the  North  Platte 
River,  opposite  the  mouth  of  Lost  Creek,  now  better  known 
as  Oshkosh. 

We  were  holding  about  six  thousand  head  of  range  cattle 
that  had  been  gathered  that  afternoon  out  of  the  Blue  Creek 
country,  besides  many  bunches  belonging  to  different  owners 
east  and  west  of  the  Bosler  Brothers'  range.  Thomas 
Lawrence,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  Bosler  Brothers'  outfit, 
was  in  charge  of  the  round-up  work  and  had  arranged  for 
night  herders  for  the  six  thousand  head  bunch  that  had  not 
been  worked,  by  calling  on  the  different  outfits  for  their  quota 
of  men  to  hold  this  large  bunch,  consisting  principally  of 
large  steers.  This,  with  their  own  outfits,  put  nearly  every 
man  in  the  saddle  that  night. 

About  midnight  a  terrible  thunderstorm  sprang  up, 
followed  by  a  heavy  rain  that  fell  for  several  hours,  coming 
down  for  a  time  in  sheets  and  swept  by  a  heavy  wind.  The 
sky  became  so  dark  that  we  could  scarcely  see  our  hands  if 
held  up  before  us. 


244  Trails  of  Yesterday 

The  result  was  a  big  mix-up.  I,  like  many  other  owners, 
was  out  with  our  men  all  night.  By  hard,  constant  riding, 
we  held  our  bunch  but  could  not  prevent  several  hundred  other 
cattle  from  drifting  in  on  us.  The  lower  bottom  where  our 
camp  was,  was  covered  with  storm  water  to  a  depth  of  one  to 
two  feet.  Daybreak  found  us  all — every  camp — very  much 
demoralized.  The  water  was  a  foot  deep  or  more  in  our 
camp. 

Colonel  Webster  came  into  our  camp.  He  was  all  in 
and  resembled  a  drowned  mouse.  He  threw  himself  down 
on  a  pile  of  sacked  corn  that  we  had  in  the  tent  and  fell  asleep. 
The  Colonel  had  a  great  dislike  for  snakes.  Tom  Ritchie 
had  killed  a  big  rattlesnake  at  the  foothills  and  put  it  in 
the  pocket  of  his  slicker.  Noticing  the  Colonel  sleeping,  he 
slipped  the  rattler  into  his  tobacco  pocket.  In  a  few  minutes 
a  cowboy  entered  the  tent  and  inquired  if  any  one  had  any 
tobacco.  Some  one  said  the  Colonel  had,  when  the  inquirer 
went  up  to  him,  awoke  him  and  asked  if  he  had  any  tobacco. 
The  Colonel  growled  at  being  disturbed  and  began  feeling  in 
his  pockets,  finally  putting  his  hand  on  the  snake.  He  jerked 
it  out  of  his  pocket,  gave  a  high  leap,  nearly  breaking  his 
head  on  the  ridge-pole  of  the  tent,  his  face  changing  from  red 
to  purple,  then  to  white,  as  he  leaped  off  the  corn  sacks  into 
nearly  a  foot  of  fast  running  storm  water,  swearing  a  blue 
streak  that  he  would  whip  the  man  (calling  out  a  very  ugly 
name)  who  had  put  that  snake  into  his  tobacco  pocket. 
Ritchie  was  bent  on  licking  the  Colonel  on  account  of  the 
name  he  had  called  him  but  we  managed  to  keep  the  two 
apart. 

Much  bad  feeling  existed  between  the  Ritchie  Brothers 
and  Webster  &  Randall  on  account  of  crowding  of  ranges, 
and  the  snake  episode  was  the  real  cause  of  an  open  rupture 
between  the  two  men.  I  never  saw  the  Colonel  smoke  or 
chew  any  more  tobacco  on  that  round-up. 

This  reminds  me  of  a  similar  rupture  between  W.  C. 
Irvin,  one  of  the  foreman  of  the  Bosler  Brothers  Cattle  Co., 


Trails  of  Yesterday  245 

who  claimed  the  range  from  some  miles  east  of  Blue  Creek 
to  west  of  Brown's  Creek,  up  to  Dennis  Sheedy's  range. 

The  Boyd  Brothers  had  come  in  just  east  of  Blue  Creek 
with  several  thousand  cattle,  expecting  to  claim  the  Blue  Creek 
country  as  a  range.  The  Bosler  Brothers,  who  had  a  ranch 
at  the  mouth  and  west  side  of  Blue  Creek,  strenuously  objected 
to  the  Boyd  Brothers'  action  and  quarrels  were  constant  be- 
tween Sam  Boyd,  who  had  charge  of  the  Boyd  Brothers' 
cattle,  and  the  Bosler  Brothers  and  their  foremen,  W.  C. 
Irvin  and  Tom  Lawrence. 

In  riding  up  Lost  Creek  valley  on  one  round-up  with  Sam 
Boyd  and  W.  C.  Irvin,  both  fighters  and  hotheads,  I  dis- 
mounted three  times  in  riding  one  mile  to  prevent  the  two 
men  from  eating  each  other  up  alive.  Each  continued  to 
hand  back  to  the  other  all  sorts  of  accusations,  when  both 
men  would  dismount  with  a  challenge  to  whip  the  other. 
I  would  get  between  them  and  order  both  to  get  into  their 
saddles  and  quit  such  boys'  play.  Both  had  grit  enough  to 
fight  a  buzz  saw. 

In  these  days  Ogallala  was  a  wide-awake,  wild,  and 
sometimes  wicked  town.  For  many  years  it  was  the  distribut- 
ing point  of  the  Texas  cattle,  but  later  owners  began  to  bring 
up  their  own  herds  to  sell  to  the  Northern  cattle  growers.  I 
have  many  times  seen  as  many  as  fifty  thousand  cattle  ranging, 
being  held  in  different  herds  along  the  bottom  and  foothills 
on  the  south  side  of  the  South  Platte  River,  strung  along  from 
ten  to  fifteen  miles  east,  west  and  south  of  Ogallala.  Ogal- 
lala had  its  numerous  saloons,  dance  houses  and  gambling 
dens,  all  running  in  full  blast  both  night  and  day.  The  town 
marshal  was  a  brave  fellow,  but  there  were  times  when  he 
went  to  cover,  being  unable  to  control  the  bad  ones,  not  a 
few  of  whom  had  to  be  killed. 

I  remember  one  night,  while  sitting  talking  in  an  upstairs 
room  at  the  Leach  House,  northeast  of  the  depot,  with  one 
of  the  Bosler  Brothers,  Wm.  Paxton,  Judge  Faut,  Uncle 
Billy  Stevens,  Colonel  Mayberry  and  one  of  the  Sheidley 


246 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


Brothers,  that  about  fifteen  shots  were  fired  through  the 
window  of  our  room  which  faced  the  street.  Our  little  hand 
lamp,  lighted  and  standing  on  a  wash  stand,  was  shot  to 
pieces,  as  was  nearly  every  pane  in  the  window.  I  do  not  see 
how  we  all  escaped  being  wounded  or  killed  or  why  the  hotel 
did  not  burn  down,  but  none  of  us  got  a  scratch.  It  is  un- 
necessary to  say  that  there  was  quick  dodging  and  scrambling 
to  get  out  of  that  room.  We  learned  later  that  the  cowboys  got 
into  a  fight  in  Tucker's  saloon  and  after  breaking  every 
mirror,  bottle  and  glass  in  the  saloon,  came  out  on  the  street, 


A  Crack  Shot 

and  the  light  in  our  window  being  the  only  glim  in  sight,  the 
boys  made  up  their  minds  that  it  must  go  out,  and  it  did. 

I  have  seen  cowboys  ride  into  this  saloon  and  jump  their 
horses  on  to  the  pool  and  billiard  tables,  and  some  crack 
shot  would  shoot  the  glass  out  of  a  man's  hand  while  it  was 
up  to  his  mouth.  Another  would  see  how  much  he  could 
shoot  off  a  cigar  in  a  man's  mouth  without  grazing  his  nose 
with  the  bullet.  The  village  authorities  tried  to  maintain 
order  but  were  often  powerless. 

Louis  Auftengarten  kept  the  principal  outfitting  store  and 


Trails  of  Yesterday  247 

did  an  enormous  business  with  the  cattle  outfits.  He  had 
their  confidence  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  deal  with  such  an 
honorable  class  of  men  as  the  Texas  cattle  men.  I  could  fill 
a  page  of  this  book  with  their  names.  We  bought  many 
cattle  and  horses  from  them  and  I  do  not  know  of  one  single 
instance  where  they  took  advantage  of  us. 

I  cannot  pass  this  bunch  of  good  fellows  without  mention- 
ing the  name  of  James  Ware,  W.  A.  Paxton's  brother-in-law, 
who  had  secured  an  interest  in  the  Keystone  Cattle  Company 
and  become  its  active  manager.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  know 
him.  He  could  never  do  too  much  for  us.  He  was  always 
frank,  honorable  and  square  in  his  dealings.  It  was  a  pleasure 
to  be  in  the  cattle  business  and  have  such  a  man  as  James  Ware 
for  a  neighbor.  He  retired  from  the  cattle  business  and  set- 
tled with  his  family  near  Blair  in  this  state. 

David  Hunter  is  another  pioneer  cattle  man.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  firm  of  Hunter  Bros.  &  Evans,  and  was  its 
active  manager.  They  were  offered  at  one  time  $900,000.00 
for  their  brand  of  cattle.  They  wanted  $1,000,000  but  sold 
for  less  after  that  hard  winter  struck  their  cattle  on  Milk 
River.  Mr.  Hunter  belongs  in  the  same  gallery  of  honorable 
cattle  men  with  Mr.  Ware,  Russell  Watts,  W.  A.  Paxton, 
Isaac  Dillon,  Sheidley  Bros.,  John  McShane,  Tussler  Bros., 
Tracey,  and  a  host  of  others  I  could  name.  Mr.  Hunter 
lives  happily  with  Mrs.  Hunter  on  his  farm  at  Glen  Burnie 
in  summer  and  on  his  California  fruit  farm  in  winter. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

A  Brighter  Outlook — Love  Creeps  In — Marriage — Home  Ties 

SOME  may  have  thought  me  a  woman  hater  for  re- 
fusing many  invitations  to  social  affairs,  but  I  was 
not.  I  had  become  acquainted  with  a  few  ladies  but 
had  seen  only  one  for  whom  I  thought  I  cared.  That  was 
Miss  Elizabeth  Burke,  who  since  her  father's  accidental 
death,  had  relinquished  many  social  duties  among  the 
officers'  wives  and  daughters  at  Fort  McPherson.  She 
thought  it  her  duty  to  assist  her  widowed  mother  in  home 
duties  and  in  the  care  of  seven  little  brothers.  She  was  a 
graduate  of  Brownell  Hall  in  Omaha.  She  was  born  in 
Illinois  and  came  with  her  parents  and  family  to  eastern 
Nebraska  near  Tecumseh,  where  the  Jayhawkers  stole  nearly 
all  of  their  stock.  They  finally  settled  on  the  California  and 
Oregon  Trail  between  Fort  McPherson  and  Platte  City. 
Here  her  father  erected  a  road  ranch,  which  as  I  have  related 
in  a  previous  chapter,  was  destroyed  by  a  band  of  Sioux  In- 
dians, who  took  all  their  live  stock  except  one  team,  which 
they  managed  to  save  with  their  lives  by  jumping  into  the 
wagon  with  what  few  things  they  could  grab  and  running 
the  team  at  break-neck  speed  to  Fort  McPherson.  The  In- 
dians took  all  their  bedding,  provisions  and  clothing  except 
what  they  had  on,  and  burned  the  ranch.  The  commander 
of  the  Fort  and  the  officers'  wives  furnished  the  family  with 
a  house  to  live  in  until  they  could  build  another. 

At  another  time,  prior  to  destroying  the  ranch,  while  the 
mother  and  children  were  alone,  two  young  Indian  chiefs 
rode  up  and  asked  that  the  mother  give  them  her  little 
daughter.  While  the  mother  was  driving  the  best  bargain 
she  could  with  the  Indians,  simply  to  kill  time,  expecting  re- 
lief every  moment,  the  Indians  finally  offered  thirty  ponies  for 
the  little,  blue-eyed,  fair-haired  girl.    Just  at  this  time  a  squad 

248 


Miss  Elizabeth  Burke 


Trails  of  Yesterday  249 

of  cavalry  came  to  the  rescue,  at  sight  of  which  the  Indians 
broke  for  the  hills  and  the  girl  was  saved. 

This  little  story,  only  one  of  many  that  happened  in  her 
frontier  life,  will  acquaint  the  reader  with  some  of  the  hard- 
ships she  and  her  family  had  gone  through  in  making  their 
home  on  the  western  Nebraska  prairie. 

She  had  a  mind  and  will  of  her  own,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  I  could  impress  upon  her  mind  my  honest  and 
earnest  intentions.  Had  she  told  me  I  must  go  and  be  or- 
dained a  bishop,  or  join  the  army  and  become  a  general,  or 
become  a  millionaire  cattle  man,  before  I  could  win  her,  I 
might  have  attempted  to  gratify  her  wishes.  She  did  neither, 
but  after  a  certain  probation,  I  was  accepted,  and  on  May 
1 8,  1 875,  we  were  married  at  her  home  near  Fort  McPherson 
by  the  Reverend  Hackenberg. 

Four  daughters,  Elizabeth  Margratha,  now  Mrs.  W.  A. 
Baldwin  of  Omaha;  Jessie  Maud,  now  Mrs.  Charles  Hendy, 
Jr.,  of  Denver;  Grace  Sheldon,  now  Mrs.  E.  R.  Goodman  of 
North  Platte,  and  Nell  Edith,  now  Mrs.  Newton  E.  Buckley 
of  North  Platte,  are  our  children.  They  were  all  born  at  the 
Home  Ranch. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

Later  Days — Lost  His  Ambition  to  Become  a  Cowboy — Organization 

of  Frontier  County — A  Life  Saved — The  North  Platte  Home 

Guards — Our   Last   Indian    Encounter 

A  FTER  the  stock  growing  business  had  been  fairly  started, 

/-%     hundreds  and  thousands  of  people  were  anxious  to 

embark  in  it.    We  had  many  applications  from  young 

men  in  the  East,  who  had  some  money  and  wealthy  fathers 

to  back  them,  asking  us  to  allow  them  to  come  to  our  ranches 

with  a  view  to  learning  the  business. 

One  young  man  named  John  Bradford,  of  Pennsylvania, 
bounced  in  on  us  one  day  with  several  trunks,  "shooting 
irons,"  fishing  tackle,  boxing  gloves  of  all  kinds,  and  a  bull- 
dog, insisting  that  we  take  him  in  to  learn  the  cattle  business. 
John  was  an  all-round  sport.  He  could  shoot,  race,  swim, 
jump  and  would  box  with  the  best  of  the  boys.  It  was  his 
ambition  to  be  able  to  ride  a  broncho  and  become  an  expert 
cowboy  in  riding,  roping  and  handling  cattle. 

We  took  him  out  with  us  on  a  round-up  south  of  the  Home 
Ranch.  We  had  worked  the  Willow  and  Medicine  Creek 
country,  and  on  returning,  worked  the  heads  of  Well  and 
Moran  canons  and  were  camped  on  the  Jack  Morrow  flats. 
We  gathered  up  quite  a  bunch  of  cows  and  calves,  intending 
to  take  them  to  the  Home  Ranch  to  brand  them.  We  were 
night  herding  this  bunch  on  the  flats  about  seven  miles  south 
of  our  Home  Ranch.  Bradford  and  I  were  bunking  together. 
John  was  on  the  first  relief  from  8  :oo  to  10:00  P.  M.  I  was 
on  the  second  relief  from  10:00  to  12  :oo.  I  had  spread  our 
bed  down  in  a  large  swale  on  account  of  its  being  so  level, 
for  during  the  rainy  season  it  was  usually  the  bed  of  a  lake. 
I  have  often  seen  it  covered  with  two  to  four  feet  of  water 
for  five  to  ten  acres.  The  weather  was  warm  and  cloudy 
and  it  commenced  to  rain  as  I  turned  in,  and  it  came  down 
steadily,  so  much  so  that  I  felt  the  water  flowing  under  and 

250 


Trails  of  Yesterday  251 

over  my  blankets,  but  I  was  too  tired  or  lazy  to  get  up  and 
pull  the  bed  on  higher  ground.  It  was  not  long  before  I 
heard  a  horseman  riding,  splashing  through  the  storm  water. 
He  told  me  it  was  my  relief.  I  jumped  up  and  pulled  on  my 
boots,  which  were  full  of  water,  threw  on  my  coat  and  started 
for  my  horse  picketed  near  by.  John  followed,  asking  where 
he  must  sleep.  I  told  him  there  was  plenty  of  room  in  my 
bed  and  while  there  was  considerable  water  under  and  over 
it,  the  water  was  warm.  He  said  he  would  not  sleep  in  that 
bed  but  would  stand  up  all  night  first,  and  he  did. 


She  was  an  Outlaw 

The  cattle  were  restless  and  I  stayed  with  them,  helping 
the  other  reliefs  until  daylight. 

Bradford,  desiring  to  be  classed  as  an  owner  of  live 
stock,  bought  a  calico  pony  from  the  Indians.  She  was  an 
outlaw.  None  of  the  cowboys  cared  to  ride  her.  Bradford 
said  he  would  ride  her  if  I  would  mount  first.  I  never  took 
a  dare.  We  saddled  her  and  I  mounted.  She  bucked  some 
and  tried  her  best  to  get  me  oft  but  failed,  when  by  resorting 
to  an  old  trick — that  of  falling  over  backwards — she  broke 
the  horn  of  the  saddle  on  my  thigh.  My  back  was  hurt 
badly  as  she  rolled  over  on  top  of  me.  I  was  carried  into  the 
ranch  and  was  under  the  doctor's  care  for  some  two  weeks, 


252  Trails  of  Yesterday 

while  some  of  the  cowboys  attended  to  me.  Bradford,  as 
good  as  his  word,  got  in  the  saddle,  only  to  be  served  the 
same  as  I  had  been.  The  pony  reared  and  fell  over  on  him, 
breaking  his  left  arm  in  two  places.  He  ordered  the  animal 
to  be  shot. 

This  accident  caused  him  to  lose  all  ambition  to  become 
an  expert  cowboy.  He  later  packed  his  belongings  and  with 
his  pet  bulldog  left  us,  his  destination  being  Montana.  The 
last  we  heard  of  John,  he  was  floating  down  the  Missouri 
River  on  a  raft  near  Fort  Benton,  some  distance  ahead  of  a 
party  that  was  anxious  to  overtake  him. 

On  January  18,  1872,  being  anxious  to  make  a  stock 
country  of  the  territory  south  of  the  Platte,  west  of  Plum 
Creek,*  north  of  the  Republican  River  and  east  of  Julesburg, 
we  organized  Frontier  County.  Hank  Clifford,  W.  H.  Miles 
and  I  were  appointed  by  Acting  Governor  James  to  be  its 
board  of  commissioners.  Levi  Carter  was  treasurer  and  I 
acted  as  his  deputy.  Kirby  was  appointed  county  clerk,  and 
others,  all  friendly  to  the  stock  interests,  were  appointed  to 
fill  the  other  county  offices.  Stockville  was  named  the  county 
seat. 

Our  organization  of  Frontier  County  may  be  worth  re- 
cording in  this  autobiography. 

I  had  sent  the  box  of  books,  commission  blanks,  etc.,  on 
to  our  Fox  Creek  ranch  the  day  prior  to  the  date  the  county 
was  to  be  organized;  and  on  that  night,  as  per  arrangement, 
I  was  to  call  for  Kirby,  then  clerking  for  Charles  McDonald 
at  his  ranch  store  at  Fort  McPherson.  I  left  our  Home 
Ranch  about  eight  o'clock  at  night,  riding  one  saddle  horse 
and  leading  another  for  Kirby.  The  night  was  clear  but 
bitter  cold.  The  snow  lay  in  drifts  and  the  bare  spots  in  the 
road  were  covered  in  places  with  ice. 

Thinking  our  horses  would  be  tired,  I  had  made  arrange- 
ments with  Lieutenant  Hayes,  the  quartermaster  of  Fort  Mc- 
Pherson, to  loan  me  a  couple  of  saddle  horses,  on  which  Kirby 

*Plum  Creek  is  now  known  as  Lexington,  Nebraska. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  253 

and  I  started  to  Emil  Ericksson's.  Mr.  Ericksson  was  justice 
of  the  peace  and  lived  about  three  miles  east  of  the  Fort. 

After  Kirby  took  the  oath  of  office,  we  started  back  to 
the  Fort.  Kirby  was  a  heavy  man,  unaccustomed  to  the  saddle, 
and  the  little  ride  to  Judge  Ericksson's  had  cooled  his  en- 
thusiasm. He  wanted  to  know  why  we  could  not  delay  the 
trip  until  morning.  I  told  him  we  had  only  until  six  o'clock 
the  next  night  to  organize  the  county  and  had  fifty  miles  to 
go  to  get  to  the  county  seat  and  in  case  of  accident  we  might 
not  make  it  and  could  not  afford  to  take  the  chances.  Finally 
he  promised  to  go  if  we  took  two  canteens  of  liquor  along, 
to  which  I  agreed. 

We  started  up  Cottonwood  Canon  about  i  :3c)  in  the  morn- 
ing on  two  nervy,  but  not  sharp-shod,  horses.  I  was  careful  to 
give  Kirby  the  gentler  horse,  which,  before  we  had  gone  two 
miles  up  the  canon,  lost  his  feet  and  went  down  with  Kirby 
on  an  icy  stretch  of  the  road.  Kirby  was  angry  and  refused 
to  remount  until  coaxed  with  two  large  drinks  out  of  the 
canteen,  when  he  changed  and  took  my  horse,  believing  him 
to  be  the  better.  The  fact  was  that  I  had  had  hard  work  to 
keep  my  horse  on  his  feet.  It  was  Kirby's  way  to  ride  with 
a  slack  rein  and  holding  to  the  horn  of  the  saddle. 

After  going  less  than  a  mile  his  horse  went  down  but 
he  kept  his  seat  in  the  saddle  by  "choking"  the  saddle  horn. 
He  did  much  swearing  and  declared  he  would  go  no  farther. 
I  again  made  the  appeal  that  all  the  would-be  county  officials 
would  be  waiting  for  us  and  would  not  forgive  us  if  we  neg- 
lected to  perform  this  duty.  After  more  canteen,  we  started 
again,  he  allowing  me  to  lead  his  horse  until  we  got  out  of 
Cottonwood  Canon  and  up  on  Rattlesnake  Ridge  (the  narrow 
divide  between  the  two  canons  leading  to  Fox  Creek),  when 
he  insisted  upon  possession  of  one  of  the  canteens.  I  gave 
him  the  one  with  the  lesser  contents.  He  also  insisted  on 
guiding  his  own  horse,  which  I  reluctantly  allowed. 

We  had  gone  about  three  miles  down  the  six-mile  ridge, 
which  was  bare  of  snow,  when  we  met  a  small  herd  of  buffalo. 


254  Trails  of  Yesterday 

Kirby's  horse  took  fright  and  started  to  shy  and  run.  I 
started  my  horse  on  a  fast  lope  and  caught  it  by  the  bridle 
rein  as  it  was  madly  dashing  towards  the  precipice  of  a  canon 
pocket,  where  both  Kirby  and  horse  would  have  been  killed 
had  the  horse  not  been  stopped.  Kirby  had  let  go  of  the 
bridle  rein  and  was  holding  to  the  horn  of  the  saddle.  He 
was  too  much  in  his  "cups"  to  realize  his  danger.  However, 
he  consented  to  allow  me  to  continue  leading  his  horse,  minus 
the  canteen,  which  he  had  dropped  in  his  efforts  to  hold  to 
the  saddle  horn. 

We  finally  arrived  at  Fox  Creek  ranch  between  five  and  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  where  the  cook  and  cowboys,  who 
were  to  accompany  us  to  Stockville  (Hank  Clifford's  tepee), 
had  a  good  breakfast  of  buffalo  meat,  biscuits  and  coffee 
awaiting  us.    Breakfast  over,  I  left  Kirby  dozing  in  the  ranch. 

One  horse  of  the  team  sent  out  with  the  books,  commis- 
sion blanks,  etc.,  the  day  before,  had  become  lame  and  we  were 
compelled  to  put  in  his  place  a  wild  Texas  horse  that  had  never 
been  harnessed  before.    We  had  to  throw  him  to  harness  him. 

We  loaded  into  the  spring  wagon  the  two  boxes  of  books 
and  other  materials,  awoke  Kirby  out  of  his  sound  sleep  and 
got  him  aboard  and  settled  in  the  seat  beside  me,  when 
shortly  before  sunrise  I  gave  orders  to  the  man  at  the  horses' 
heads  to  turn  them  loose.  The  Texas  broncho  became  quite 
active  in  standing  on  his  hind  feet  and  lunging  forward, 
apparently  trying  to  get  out  of  his  collar.  The  new  road  cut 
through  the  heavy  brush  and  timber,  leading  from  the  ranch 
to  the  main  road  around  the  head  of  Fox  Creek,  was  not  any 
too  wide  but  it  assisted  materially  in  keeping  "Texas"  in 
the  trail.  The  team  kept  up  their  lope  down  the  creek  and 
up  the  pocket  north  of  where  the  Fred  Schick  ranch  was 
later  built.  We  had  hard  work  to  keep  our  seats  in  going 
up  this  pocket  on  account  of  washouts  and  buffalo  trails. 
Kirby  was  jolted  around  considerably  and  finally  grabbed  the 
back  of  the  seat  to  prevent  his  falling  out  of  the  spring  wagon. 
We  finally  reached  the  head  of  the  pocket  and  the  little  neck 


Trails  of  Yesterday  255 

that  we  had  to  cross.  The  steep  hill  down  which  we  had  to 
travel  in  order  to  get  into  one  of  the  canons  that  led  to  the 
divide  between  Curtis  and  Fox  creek  was  nearly  covered  with 
ice.  My  hands  were  numb  with  cold  from  pulling  on  the 
reins,  which  it  seemed  "Texas"  wanted  to  break.  The  team 
was  covered  with  lather. 

I  asked  a  couple  of  the  several  cowboys  accompanying 
us — some  of  the  future  county  officers  of  Frontier  County — 
to  hold  the  horses'  heads  while  I  got  out  and  examined  the 
road  we  had  to  travel  down  the  pocket  into  the  canon.  I 
concluded  that  I  might  make  it  safely  with  a  gentle  team, 
but  with  "Texas"  never — and  said  so  to  Kirby,  who  by  this 
time  had  nearly  drained  the  other  canteen.  At  this  he  seemed 
to  think  I  was  questioning  his  courage.  He  straightened  up  in 
his  seat,  took  another  drink,  looked  me  in  the  eye,  and  said : 
"I  am  from  Missouri.  I  dare  ride  where  you  dare  drive. 
Let  her  go."  I  did.  "Texas"  and  his  mate  went  off  their 
feet.  The  wagon  swung  round  and  turned  over,  the  two 
boxes  of  books  and  Kirby  rolled  down  the  canon,  the  dash- 
board came  on  my  neck,  and  the  team  became  excited,  break- 
ing the  wagon  tongue  in  two  places.  I  held  on  to  the  reins  until 
some  of  the  cowboys  came  to  the  horses'  heads,  lifted  the 
dashboard  off  my  neck  and  righted  the  wagon.  As  soon 
as  I  could  I  went  to  the  assistance  of  Kirby,  who  lay  in  a  heap, 
moaning  and  groaning.  I  asked  him  if  he  were  badly  hurt. 
The  only  answer  was,  "Let  me  die  right  here."  I  told  him 
I  was  surprised  to  hear  a  Missourian  talk  like  that  after 
telling  me  that  he  dared  ride  where  I  dared  drive.  I  was 
sorry  for  making  that  remark  when  on  examination,  I  dis- 
covered his  collar  bone  was  fractured  and  his  arm  was  broken 
in  two  places.  We  spliced  the  broken  wagon  tongue  with  two 
lariats,  using  a  spade  that  we  had  brought  along  for  a  splint. 
Leaving  the  two  boxes  of  books  on  the  ground  where  they  had 
rolled  we  carried  poor  Kirby  back  to  the  wagon,  in  which 
I  had  spread  out  a  roll  of  bedding  and  laid  him  down  as 
tenderly  as  possible.    While  I  took  the  reins  I  had  a  cowboy 


256 


Trails  of  Yesterday 


Trails  of  Yesterday  257 

take  "Texas"  and  lead  him  by  the  bridle,  since  I  did  not  know 
what  other  meanness  he  had  brewing  for  us.  When  the 
wagon  crowded  on  him  or  the  doubletrees  touched  his  hind 
legs,  he  would  "let  out"  at  the  dashboard  with  both  hind 
feet. 

We  went  back  to  the  Fox  Creek  ranch,  into  which  we  car- 
ried Kirby,  laying  him  down  easily  on  a  bed  of  hay,  quilts 
and  buffalo  robes.  He  had  come  to  his  senses  and  realized 
he  was  badly  hurt.  I  left  him  in  charge  of  the  foreman  of 
the  ranch,  Lew  White,  and  a  couple  of  ranch  boys,  with  strict 
orders  that,  after  a  lunch  and  some  hot  coffee,  they  were  to 
load  him  carefully  in  a  box  wagon  that  I  partially  filled  with 
hay  and  plenty  of  bedding,  and  with  the  ranch  team  take 
him  into  Fort  McPherson  as  easily  and  quickly  as  possible 
and  turn  him  over  to  Dr.  Elbry,  the  Fort  doctor.  I  had  him 
administer  the  oath  of  office  as  county  commissioner  to  me, 
and  with  cheering  and  encouraging  words,  telling  him  how 
I  had  arranged  to  send  him  back  to  the  Fort,  I  left  him. 

With  a  few  bad  breaks  on  the  part  of  "Texas"  but  without 
serious  accident,  we  found  and  loaded  up  the  boxes.  We 
took  the  team  from  the  wagon  and  led  it  down  the  steep  hill 
to  the  bottom  of  the  canon  by  hand,  which  seemed  to  satisfy 
"Texas."  At  about  twelve  o'clock  noon  Sol  Martin,  two 
other  men  and  I  (future  officials  of  Frontier  County)  started 
in  good  earnest  for  Hank  Clifford's  tepee,  which  we  reached 
about  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  over  a  trackless  road  on  which 
there  was  plenty  of  ice  and  snow.  The  Clifford  Brothers, 
Miles  and  other  to-be  county  officials  were  impatiently  wait- 
ing for  us.  After  telling  them  about  Kirby's  accident  I  ad- 
ministered the  oath  of  office,  handed  them  their  commissions 
and,  when  we  were  to  sign  our  names  to  the  record,  there 
was  neither  pen  and  ink  nor  a  pencil  in  the  possession  of  any  of 
us!  We  scraped  some  soot  off  the  tepee  poles,  mixed  it  with 
water,  sharpened  a  stick  and  dipped  it  in  the  mixture.  With 
this  stick  we  all  wrote  our  names  and  Frontier  County  was 
born,  with  Stockville  named  as  the  county  seat. 


258  Trails  of  Yesterday 

We  all  stayed  at  Hank's  tepee  that  night.  His  squaw 
and  her  sister  cooked  our  supper  and  breakfast.  After  break- 
fast, bidding  the  new  officers  good-bye,  my  men  and  I  started 
back  to  Fox  Creek  ranch.  "Texas,"  a  grass  horse,  looked 
and  felt  like  "thirty  cents."  He  had  plenty  of  will  power 
left  but  not  the  physical  force  to  back  it. 

We  arrived  at  the  ranch  about  noon  and  to  my  surprise 
and  alarm,  there  lay  Kirby  where  I  had  left  him  the  day  be- 
fore. He  had  managed  to  get  possession  of  a  revolver,  with 
which  he  threatened  to  shoot  the  first  man  who  touched  him. 
He  had  White  and  the  ranch  crew  treed.  I  quickly  lay  down 
on  the  bed  beside  him,  telling  him  I  was  sorry  he  had  not  let 
the  boys  take  him  to  the  Fort  and  that  he  was  endangering 
his  life  by  the  delay.  I  took  the  revolver  away  from  him 
and  told  him  I  was  going  to  have  him  at  Fort  McPherson 
that  night.  I  had  him  there  by  eleven  o'clock  and  in  the  hos- 
pital under  Dr.  Elbry's  care.  Blood  poison  had  set  in  and  his 
arm  and  shoulder  were  nearly  twice  their  natural  size.  It 
took  three  months  of  Dr.  Elbry's  constant  care  and  the  best 
of  nursing  to  save  his  life.  When  he  was  well  he  left  for 
Stockville  and  filled  the  duties  of  his  office  as  county  clerk. 
He  took  up  a  claim  near  the  county  seat,  which  he  later  sold 
and  returned  to  old  Missouri,  where  some  years  later  he  died 
of  yellow  fever.  If  I  knew  where  he  was  buried  and  if  there 
were  room  on  his  tombstone,  I  would  have  carved  on  it  the 
words:  "I  dare  ride  where  you  dare  drive.  Let  her  go." 
Poor  Kirby !  Clever,  generous  and  kind-hearted — a  diamond 
in  the  rough — his  only  failing  was  too  much  "canteen." 

We  ranged  more  or  less  stock  in  this  county  for  several 
years.  Taxes  were  light.  In  fact,  there  was  nothing  except 
state  and  school  tax.  We  had  to  work  roads  and  build 
bridges  across  the  Medicine,  Willow  and  other  creeks,  but 
we  built  these  ourselves  without  charge  to  the  county.  I 
charged  nothing  for  services  as  commissioner  and  deputy 
treasurer. 

Nearly  every  settler  had  a  few  cattle  or  horses,  or  ex- 


Trails  of  Yesterday  259 

pected  to  have  some  shortly,  to  thrive  and  fatten  on  the  rich, 
native  gama  and  buffalo  grass,  as  did  the  numerous  fat  and 
sleek  buffalo,  elk,  deer  and  antelope  that  ranged  in  this 
country  both  winter  and  summer. 

Among  the  worthy  early  settlers  can  be  named  the  Rib- 
bons, Bakers,  E.  W.  Murphy,  Lockwoods,  Sanders,  and 
Hank  and  Monty  Clifford.  Both  had  squaw  wives  and 
each  a  goodly  number  of  half-breed  papooses.  There  was 
also  W.  H.  Miles  and  his  very  intelligent  sister,  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond, who  could  bring  down  a  buffalo,  deer  or  antelope  at 
the  first  shot.  She  later  married  David  Ballentine.  Then 
came  the  Daucheys,  Schicks  (never  forgetting  good  Mother 
Nannie),  Gambels,  Nesbitts,  Kirbys,  Sutherlands,  Mc- 
Masons,  Doings,  Berry  Bros.,  Baskins,  Cruthers,  Dick  Sey- 
mour, self-named  "Bloody  Dick,"  Webbs  and  many  others, 
all  good  people,  who  settled  in  this  county  in  its  younger  days 
and  assisted  in  developing  its  resources,  in  building  its  schools 
and  churches  and  in  leading  it  upward  and  onward  to  a  higher 
civilization.  Some  of  these  have  crossed  the  Great  Divide; 
others  are  nearing  it,  all  happy  in  the  thought  that  they  have 
done  their  duty,  unmindful  of  the  many  hardships  they  have 
suffered  in  changing  a  barren  prairie  to  a  productive  and 
beautiful  country. 

I  shall  here  tell  how  I  was  the  means  of  saving  the  life 
of  Anderson. 

I  was  returning  from  a  commissioners'  meeting  at  Stock- 
ville.  It  was  winter  and  some  eight  to  twelve  inches  of 
crusted  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  making  travel  with  a  team, 
even  with  a  light  wagon,  almost  impossible.  I  had  traveled 
about  two-thirds  of  the  Curtis  Ridge  road  on  my  way  to  Fox 
Creek  ranch  when  I  noticed  some  object,  apparently  moving, 
about  one  and  one-half  miles  northeast  of  me.  I  stopped 
my  team  and  took  out  my  field  glasses,  but  for  a  time  could 
not  make  out  what  the  object  was.  It  did  not  look  like  an 
animal  and  did  not  resemble  a  human  being.  Though  the 
sun  was  sinking  rapidly  in  the  west,  guarded  by  a  fiery  sun  dog 


260  Trails  of  Yesterday 

on  either  side,  indicating  a  cold  night  and  to-morrow,  I  started 
my  team  toward  the  object.  On  coming  closer,  I  found  that 
it  was  a  man  trying  to  walk  and  crawl  on  his  hands  and  knees 
over  the  frozen  snow.  I  asked  him  his  name,  where  he  was 
from  and  where  he  was  going,  but  he  was  so  badly  frozen  he 
could  not  answer.  His  face  and  nose  were  like  white  wax. 
I  lifted  him  into  the  wagon,  fastened  my  lap  robe  around  him 
and  started  the  team  for  Fox  Creek  ranch  as  fast  as  it  could 
go.  Once  there  I  got  all  hands  to  help  thaw  out  his  frozen 
face,  hands  and  feet.  We  heaped  snow  and  ice  on  the  frozen 
parts  and  kept  up  a  vigorous  rubbing  all  night.  We  poured 
hot  drinks  down  the  poor  fellow  and  at  last  he  regained  his 
senses  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  By  daylight  we  had 
removed  the  frost  from  his  face,  arms  and  hands  and  as  far 
down  as  the  calves  of  his  legs.  We  made  another  united 
effort  to  get  it  out  of  his  ankles  and  feet  but  could  not  move 
it.  The  only  thing  was  to  get  him  into  the  Post  surgeon's 
quarters  at  Fort  McPherson.  With  the  help  of  one  of  our 
men  I  got  him  there  by  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
next  day.  The  doctor  thought  his  case  hopeless  and  did  not 
think  he  could  save  his  life.  The  flesh  from  the  calves  of 
his  legs  down  was  dead  and  black.  I  stayed  and  saw  his 
feet  amputated  and  visited  him  several  times  while  in  the 
hospital.  He  finally  pulled  through  all  right  and  I  got  him 
a  job  as  bridge  watchman  for  John  Burke,  for  whom  he 
worked  many  years  and  saved  his  money.  Everybody  was 
kind  to  Anderson  and  helped  him.  He  fixed  up  a  pair  of 
large  warm  shoes,  in  which  he  fastened  his  stumps  and  got 
around  very  well  with  a  couple  of  sticks.  He  explained  his 
misfortune  by  saying  that  he  left  a  ranch  at  Plum  Creek,  in- 
tending to  kill  some  game,  but  got  lost  and  had  no  idea  where 
he  was  or  what  he  was  doing  when  I  discovered  him.  He 
finally  drifted  back  to  Plum  Creek,  later  called  Lexington, 
where  he  commenced  to  buy  hogs  and  trade.  At  last  accounts 
he  had  accumulated'  between  $30,000.00  and  $50,000.00, 
thus  showing  what  a  man  can  do  with  no  feet.  Anderson 
always  said  I  saved  his  life.     Maybe  I  helped. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  261 

While  the  settlers  and  ranchmen  of  Frontier  County  and 
adjoining  territory  would  meet  with  some  Indian  scares, 
caused  by  rustling  bands  of  Sioux  and  Cheyennes  that  traveled 
through  the  county  under  the  pretense  of  hunting  buffalo  and 
other  game,  they  were  not  bothered  as  often  as  the  ranchmen 
and  settlers  in  the  Platte  Valley  west  of  Plum  Creek  and  east 
of  Julesburg  on  the  South  Platte  and  west  of  North  Platte 
City,  and  east  of  Fort  Laramie  on  the  North  Platte  River. 
The  garrison  at  Fort  McPherson  was  kept  very  busy  and 
scarcely  a  day  passed  that  one  or  more  companies  of  cavalry 
were  not  called  out  to  protect  freight  and  emigrant  trains,  set- 
tlers and  ranchmen  from  Indian  scares  and  attacks.  Many 
horses  were  being  stolen  from  the  Indians  at  Pine  Ridge  and 
Rosebud  Agencies  by  alleged  white  men,  who  would  bring  this 
stolen  stock  to  certain  cattlemen.  These  cattlemen  would  pay 
these  horse  thieves  a  very  small  price  per  head  for  them.  To 
get  even  with  these  same  ranchmen,  the  thieves  would  drive  off 
a  bunch  of  their  horses,  take  them  up  and  trade  them  to  the 
Indians. 

On  discovering  what  was  going  on  and  being  afraid  that 
this  stealing,  if  not  stopped,  might  lead  to  an  Indian  war 
with  the  cattlemen,  I  took  it  upon  myself  to  write  to  the  In- 
dian agents  at  Pine  Ridge  and  Rosebud  Agencies  and  to  the 
prominent  chiefs  Red  Cloud  and  Spotted  Tail,  inviting  them, 
through  their  agents,  to  send  a  list  of  all  their  brands.  This 
was  done  and  copies  put  in  the  hands  of  every  stock  grower  in 
the  Platte  valleys  and  a  list  of  their  brands  was  made  and  sent 
to  the  Indian  agents  for  the  benefit  of  the  Indians  and  squaw 
men.  This  and  the  picking  up  of  all  stray  horses  bearing 
these  brands  and  returning  them  to  the  Indians  led  to  a  better 
feeling  between  the  Indians  and  the  cattlemen.  Some  of  the 
prominent  cattlemen  (thirteen,  to  be  exact)  chipped  in 
$100.00  each.  This  amount  was  offered  as  a  reward  for  the 
capture,  dead  or  alive,  of  the  ringleader,  which  was  later 
accomplished.  Lewellen  got  his  man  after  nearly  killing 
him.  A  term  in  the  penitentiary  broke  up  this  gang  of  horse 
thieves  for  a  time. 


262  Trails  of  Yesterday 

These  depredations  had  incited  some  of  the  bad  Indians 
to  leave  the  different  reservations  and  raid  the  cattle  ranches 
in  the  Platte  Valley.  These  raids  became  so  bold  and  fre- 
quent that  it  was  determined  to  organize  a  mounted  company 
to  be  known  as  the  North  Platte  Guards.  Some  sixty  men 
enrolled.  Major  North  of  Pawnee  Indian  fame  was  chosen 
captain,  the  writer  first  lieutenant  and  Frank  Alexander 
second  lieutenant.  The  company  was  composed  of  ranchmen, 
cowboys  and  others,  who  were  accustomed  to  frontier  life 
and  knew  how  to  shoot. 

It  was  Thanksgiving  evening,  1878,  when  word  reached 
us  that  a  band  of  Indians  had  stolen  Mrs.  Randall's  and  some 
of  Major  Walker's  horses,  had  taken  a  bunch  of  ours,  and  it 
was  rumored  that  they  were  killing  some  of  our  cattle  on  the 
Birdwood.  I  wired  the  information  to  Major  North  at 
Columbus,  Nebraska,  word  coming  back  that  the  Major  was 
out  on  a  scouting  expedition  with  his  company  of  Pawnees 
and  could  not  be  reached.  That  night  I  called  out  every 
member  of  the  company  I  could  reach  to  report  immediately. 
About  seventeen  responded.  Among  them  was  Con  Grimes, 
sheriff  of  the  county,  Major  Walker,  Volney  Frazier,  James 
Reed,  Wm.  Thompson,  Frank  True,  Laing  Brothers,  John 
Hinman,  W.  C.  Ritner,  John  Enlow,  Frank  Alexander,  and 
seven  others  whose  names  I  cannot  now  recall.  I  wired  the 
general  in  command  at  Fort  McPherson  for  a  company  of 
cavalry  and  was  wired  that  Lieutenant  Wheeler's  company 
would  leave  the  Fort  immediately  on  orders  to  join  us.  I  wired 
that  I  would  start  at  once  with  seventeen  men,  proceed  to  the 
forks  of  Birdwood  Creek  and  then  await  the  arrival  of 
Lieutenant  Wheeler's  company. 

It  was  about  1 1  130  P.  M.  when  we  left  North  Platte.  On 
leaving  I  counted  twenty  men,  but  two  dropped  out  on  the 
way  and  remained  at  their  ranches. 

The  night  was  bitter  cold  and  the  falling  snow  was  blown 
into  our  faces  by  a  strong  northwest  wind.  The  snow  was 
drifted  badly  and  crusted,  making  it  hard  traveling  for  our 
horses. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  263 

We  reached  the  forks  of  the  Birdwood,  the  Hinman 
ranch,  about  daylight.  Here  we  ate  a  little  lunch  and  held 
our  horses  by  the  lariat,  allowing  them  to  eat  the  long,  strag- 
gling grass  that  projected  above  the  snow. 

We  had  been  here  about  an  hour  when  Lieutenant 
Wheeler's  company  joined  us.  It  was  arranged  that  we 
should  proceed  up  to  the  east  fork,  of  the  Birdwood,  locate  the 
Indians  and  make  the  attack  together,  the  Lieutenant  remark- 
ing that  he  had  positive  orders  not  to  fire  on  the  Indians,  but  he 
said:  "If  you  commence  it  and  it  is  necessary,  I  may  have  to 
take  a  hand  in  it  to  defend  ourselves."  He  said  that  after 
resting  his  horses  a  couple  of  hours  he  and  his  company  would 
follow  our  trail.  Judging  from  the  reports  received  from 
our  range  riders,  he  concluded  we  would  find  the  Indians  near 
the  mouth  of  Squaw  Creek. 

We  held  a  short  council  of  war  and  it  was  arranged  that 
three  men,  familiar  with  the  country,  should  be  started  up  on 
the  east  side  of  the  creek  and  seven  others,  also  familiar  with 
the  country,  should  be  put  out  as  scouts  on  the  west  side. 
The  bottom  of  the  creek  was  narrow,  very  soft  in  places  and 
difficult  to  cross.  Neither  of  the  three  parties  was  to  fire  a 
shot,  and  in  case  either  party  located  the  Indians,  such  party 
would  be  expected  to  send  a  man  back  to  notify  me  and  I 
would  do  my  best  to  get  in  touch  with  Wheeler  and  his  com- 
pany. If  the  Indians  were  located,  we  expected  to  make 
the  attack  together.  I  did  not  want  to  have  it  said  that  this 
was  a  cattlemen's  or  cowboys'  Indian  fight.  Possibly  many 
of  these  Indians  were  my  friends  and  I  did  not  want  to  take 
any  advantage  of  them  until  I  knew  for  a  fact  that  they  were 
stealing  our  or  neighbors'  stock. 

With  this  understanding  the  seven  guards  in  charge  of 
Volney  Frazier,  our  Home  Ranch  foreman,  left  us  with  the 
further  understanding  that  in  case  of  an  attack,  they  would 
be  expected  to  drive  the  Indians  from  under  cover  of  the 
creek  bank  so  we  could  get  at  them.  The  first  shot  fired  by 
us  or  the  Indians  was  to  be  the  signal  to  close  in,  capture 
all  the  Indians'  horses  and  take  the  Indians  prisoners,  either 


264  Trails  of  Yesterday 

dead  or  alive,  provided  they  had  stolen  stock  in  their  pos- 
session. We  did  our  best  to  keep  in  sight  of  our  scouts,  at  the 
same  time  keeping  one  man  well  in  the  rear  to  signal  Wheeler 
as  to  our  course  up  the  creek. 

We  had  followed  many  Indian  tracks  leading  from  the 
creek  into  the  bluffs  on  the  east  side,  but  finally  quit  this 
since  they  would  invariably  return  to  the  creek  by  a  different 
pocket. 

The  snow  lay  on  the  ground  two  to  ten  inches  deep  but 
drifted.  The  sun  was  out  bright  but  the  weather  was  freez- 
ing cold.  It  was  getting  past  four  o'clock.  The  sun  was 
sinking  fast  under  a  cloud,  yet  no  Indians  and  no  Wheeler. 
We  came  within  a  mile  and  a  half  of  the  mouth  of  Squaw 
Creek,  when,  on  going  to  the  top  of  a  small  hill,  we  found 
our  three  scouts  on  the  east  side  of  the  creek  in  a  small  side 
pocket,  awaiting  us.  They  had  located  the  Indians,  their 
horses  and  camp,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead  of  us. 

We  dismounted  and  several  of  us  crawled  as  close  as  we 
could  to  the  Indian  camp.  There,  grazing  on  a  flat  just 
above  the  bed  of  the  creek,  were  about  forty  head  of  horses, 
most  of  them  loose  but  guarded  by  a  mounted  Indian,  who  was 
riding  around  the  bunch.  We  could  not  locate  our  seven 
men  on  the  west  side  of  the  creek.  This  left  us  eleven  men, 
counting  myself. 

After  locating  the  Indians  and  their  camp  by  the  little 
curl  of  smoke  coming  out  of  the  creek  bottom,  which  was 
down  between  the  hills  and  could  not  be  seen  from  our  posi- 
tion, we  retraced  our  steps  to  where  we  had  left  the  horses 
in  charge  of  the  other  guards.  Then  we  all  mounted  and 
rode  back  from  the  creek  under  cover  of  the  bluffs,  with  the 
object  of  finding  a  position  for  attack.  We  found  just  what 
we  wanted — a  great  sand  blow-out,  in  which  we  could  hide 
our  horses.  We  quickly  turned  them  over  to  five  of  the  guards 
while  we  other  six,  with  our  long  Springfield  rifles  and  a 
brace  of  revolvers  each,  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  sand  hole, 
where  we  made  a  footing;  and  six  guns  were  soon  pointing 
at  the  Indians'  horses,  with  a  good  marksman  stooping  over 


Trails  of  Yesterday  265 

each  and  looking  carefully  down  through  the  sight  at  the  end 
of  the  barrel.  The  eleven  of  us  were  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  the  Indians'  horses  and,  by  the  aid  of  our  field  glasses,  had 
no  trouble  in  locating  certain  horses  in  the  bunch  that  had 
been  stolen  from  Mrs.  Randall,  our  neighbors  and  us.  The 
mounted  Indian,  suspicious  that  all  was  not  right,  had  dis- 
appeared under  the  creek  bank,  probably  to  give  the  alarm 
to  the  Indians  in  camp.  A  few  moments  later  a  big  portly 
Indian,  wearing  a  red  blanket,  came  strutting  in  front  of  the 
Indian  ponies,  carrying  a  Winchester  rifle.  He  had  caught 
sight  of  some  of  our  heads  peeping  above  the  rim  of  the 
sand  hole,  since  he  shouted  to  us  in  tolerably  plain  English: 
"Hunter  wa  sichee,"  meaning  "Go  away,  cattlemen."  With- 
out orders  Bill  Thompson  sent  a  shot  at  the  Indian.  The  ball 
went  between  his  legs,  causing  him  to  jump  several  feet  into 
the  air  and  run  down  back  of  the  horses  under  the  creek  bank. 
This  was  the  critical  moment  when  the  seven  guards  west 
of  the  creek  could  have  done  good  work  by  driving  the  In- 
dians from  under  the  bank,  thus  enabling  us  to  get  a  fair 
show  at  them,  but  they  failed  to  show  up.  They  later  stated 
that  they  had  to  make  a  large  circle  around  the  head  of  a 
canon  in  order  to  get  within  range  of  the  Indians. 

Several  shots  were  fired  by  our  party  at  what  were 
thought  to  be  Indian  heads  peeping  above  the  creek  banks. 
The  scattering  bunch  of  Indian  ponies  handicapped  us  by 
obstructing  the  view  of  the  creek  bank,  and  Major  Walker 
courageously  offered  to  go  and  surround  the  ponies,  which 
had  scented  our  horses  and  had  come  closer.  I  objected  to 
the  Major's  proposition.  It  was  a  brave  one,  but  the  Major 
would  have  been  killed  the  moment  he  got  on  the  other  side 
of  the  ponies.  Nothing  could  have  saved  him,  as  it  was 
proven  later  that  there  were  twenty-two  Indians,  each  having 
a  repeating  Winchester  rifle  with  magazines  full.  It  would 
have  been  the  same  if  the  Indians  had  attempted  to  take  the 
ponies.  We  could  have  killed  a  part  of  them.  The  Indians 
saw  this  and  that  our  position  covered  them  as  they  continued 
to  come  closer  of  their  own  accord. 


266  Trails  of  Yesterday 

It  was  getting  dark.  None  of  the  seven  guards  on  the 
west  side  of  the  creek  had  indicated  their  location,  neither 
had  Lieutenant  Wheeler  and  his  company,  for  whose  safety 
I  was  becoming  alarmed.  The  Indians  might  at  that  moment, 
in  event  they  had  seen  his  command,  be  leading  them  into 
a  trap.  None  of  us  had  any  idea  how  many  bands  of  In- 
dians there  were  on  East  Birdwood  Creek.  The  tracks  we 
had  seen  indicated  more  than  we  had  already  discovered  on 
the  creek.  We  had  our  hands  full  watching  the  surrounded 
Indian  ponies  and  guarding  against  any  flank  movement  that 
might  be  attempted  by  the  Indians.  Notwithstanding  these 
odds  against  us,  I  determined  to  send  one  of  our  guards  as 
soon  as  I  could  to  head  off  Lieutenant  Wheeler  and  his  com- 
pany. 

At  this  moment  a  bunch  of  cattle  came  running  out  of 
the  head  of  a  canon  that  led  from  the  creek  bottom  where 
the  Indians  were  camped,  indicating  that  the  Indians  were 
following  them  up.  Here  one  of  our  guards,  Frank  True, 
without  warning,  started  his  horse  on  a  fast  run  toward  the 
head  of  this  canon,  where  for  his  protection,  I  thought  best  to 
follow  him.  Catching  up  with  True  I  remonstrated  with 
him  for  taking  such  desperate  chances — that  he  was  liable  to 
get  killed.  He  said  he  did  not  care.  He  was  going  to  kill 
an  Indian  anyway. 

We  had  reached  the  edge  of  the  canon,  the  banks  of 
which  were  somewhat  steep.  In  the  bottom  of  the  canon  I 
saw  several  Indians  coming  on  a  run,  each  carrying  a 
Winchester  in  hand.  True,  on  seeing  them,  jumped  off 
his  horse,  turned  him  loose,  threw  his  Springfield  rifle  to 
his  shoulder  and  fired  at  the  approaching  Indians.  I  also 
sent  the  ball  in  my  gun  among  the  group  of  Indians. 
These  two  shots  checked  their  advance  and  caused  them  to 
stop  and  surround  one  Indian,  who,  I  am  satisfied,  had  been 
wounded.  As  quickly  as  I  could  I  grabbed  the  reins  of  True's 
horse,  urging  him  to  mount  quickly,  which  he  did,  when  both 
of  us  started  across  the  little,  flat  valley  as  fast  as  our  horses 
could  carry  us.    Bullets  dropped  around  us  thick  and  fast  and 


Trails  of  Yesterday  267 

one  struck  True's  horse  in  the  left  cushion,  knocking  him 
off  his  feet,  at  which  the  Indians  gave  a  wild  yell,  thinking 
they  had  killed  both  horse  and  rider.  Another  ball  struck 
the  brim  of  my  hat. 

At  this  time  the  guards,  left  with  the  Indian  horses,  com- 
menced to  fire  at  the  Indians,  causing  them  to  dodge  and 
keep  hidden  under  edge  of  the  canon.  This  timely  action 
perhaps  saved  both  of  us  from  certain  death.  I  think  it 
taught  True  a  good  lesson.  A  braver  boy  did  not  live,  but 
he  lacked  judgment,  and  the  first  principle  of  a  good  soldier  or 
guard  is  to  obey  orders.  I  had  cautioned  our  guards  many 
times  not  to  take  any  chances  and  for  all  to  adopt  the  Indian 
method  of  fighting  under  cover. 

We  soon  joined  our  rescuers.  They  had  surrounded  the 
Indian  horses  and  were  closely  herding  them,  expecting  the 
Indians  to  make  a  dash  on  them  every  moment  and  try  to 
stampede  them. 

As  soon  as  I  joined  the  guards  I  sent  a  good  man  to  head 
off  Lieutenant  Wheeler  and  his  company.  The  Indians  were 
completely  routed  and  lost  everything  they  had  except  the 
blankets  they  wore  over  their  shoulders  or  around  their  bodies. 
While  part  of  the  guards  held  the  horses,  others  went  by  the 
Indian  camp  with  a  few  pack  horses,  on  which  we  loaded 
everything  of  value  at  the  camp — blankets,  tepees,  buffalo 
robes,  buckskins,  wolf,  coyote,  beaver  and  skunk  pelts,  paints 
and  extra  moccasins,  and  just  as  it  was  getting  dark  we  started 
our  prizes  for  the  Hinman  ranch  at  the  forks  of  the  Bird- 
wood  creeks. 

We  arrived  at  the  Hinman  ranch  at  nearly  midnight, 
about  which  time,  we  later  learned,  the  Indians  passed  the 
Cody  and  North  ranches  at  the  head  of  the  South  Dismal 
on  a  brisk  walk.  Between  that  point  and  the  North  Dismal 
the  wounded  Indian  gave  out,  dying  some  time  during  the 
night.  His  body  was  discovered  several  days  later  and 
buried. 

The  next  morning  twenty-one  Indians  were  seen  passing 
near  Rankin's  ranch  on  the  North  Loup — all  more  or  less 


268  Trails  of  Yesterday 

frozen.  They  arrived  several  days  later  at  Rosebud  Agency, 
frozen,  hungry  and  the  most  dejected  looking  Indians  that 
were  ever  seen. 

That  night  we  hobbled  many  of  the  horses,  and  divided 
our  force  of  guards,  including  the  seven  that  had  come  in 
from  the  west  of  the  creek,  into  three  reliefs.  Those  not 
on  herd  kept  their  saddled  horses  on  a  stake  rope  ready  for 
emergency.  The  guards  off  duty  curled  themselves  up  like 
kittens  anywhere  on  the  dirt  floor  of  the  Hinman  ranch  and 
dropped  asleep.  There  was  but  little  chance  to  sleep.  Lieu- 
tenant Wheeler  and  command  fared  as  well  as  we  did,  since 
they  had  tents,  hot  coffee  and  hard  tack,  while  we  had  frozen 
biscuits  and  Birdwood  water. 

Lieutenant  Wheeler  seemed  sorry  that  he  was  not  able  to 
catch  up  with  us.  He  claimed  to  have  gotten  lost  while  fol- 
lowing Indian  trails  in  the  hills  east  of  the  Birdwood  Creek. 
We  will  be  charitable  and  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 
I  know  one  thing — had  he  joined  us  about  the  time  we  had  the 
Indians  in  that  canon  and  had  helped  us  just  a  little,  not  many 
Indians  would  have  arrived  at  the  Rosebud  Agency.  He  took 
up  the  Indian  trail  the  next  morning.  Perhaps  he  wanted  to 
show  his  willingness  to  accomplish  something  personally.  I 
thought  it  a  useless  trip  and  hard  on  both  men  and  horses. 
Much  snow  was  on  the  ground  and  the  thermometer  ten  to 
fifteen  degrees  below  zero.  I  believe  the  seven  guards  did 
their  best  to  reach  us. 

At  peep  of  day  we  packed  our  captured  articles  on  the 
backs  of  several  Indian  ponies,  took  the  hobbles  off  our  horses 
and  started  for  North  Platte,  sending  some  of  our  men  by  way 
of  the  Birdwood  Ranch  with  the  stolen  horses  which  we  had 
recaptured.  Others  went  with  the  pack  horses  and  some  by 
way  of  Mrs.  Randall's  and  Major  Walker's  ranches  in  order 
to  leave  the  stolen  horses  belonging  to  them. 

When  turning  Mrs.  Randall's  horses  over  to  her  man 
at  the  ranch  he  became  rather  cross  because  we  had  not 
brought  the  halters  along.  I  think  the  Indians  had  cut  these 
up  for  belts. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  269 

On  the  way  to  North  Platte  it  was  suggested  that  we 
paint  our  faces  Indian  fashion  with  the  paints  found  in  the 
Indians'  camp.  We  arrived  at  North  Platte  between  three 
and  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  and  assembled  in  the  Court 
House  yard,  where  the  local  photographer  insisted  on  taking 
our  pictures. 

It  was  a  hard  trip  on  the  guards  and  their  horses.  We 
had  been  gone  two  nights  and  two  days.  We  had  been 
thirty-three  hours  in  the  saddle,  had  ridden  over  one  hun- 
dred fifty  miles  and  had  each  averaged  about  three  hours' 
sleep.  Our  fare  had  been  scanty — frozen  biscuits  and  ice 
water.  Our  horses  had  been  without  a  feed  of  grain.  Many 
of  the  guards  had  frozen  their  hands,  ears,  noses  and  feet, 
the  first  night  riding  thirty  miles  facing  a  furious  snowstorm, 
rushed  by  a  strong,  bitter  cold,  northwest  wind.  This  was  all 
the  glory  the  North  Platte  Guards  got  out  of  this  trip,  and 
we  were  thankful  that  we  were  not  sent  to  the  Happy  Hunt- 
ing Ground  by  this  bunch  of  thieving  Indians,  all  armed  with 
modern  guns  against  our  old,  Long  Tom  Springfield  rifles 
graciously  loaned  to  us  by  our  state  authorities. 

Such  is  the  true  story  of  the  last  Sioux  Indian  raid  on  the 
ranchmen  and  settlers  of  the  Platte  Valley  west  of  North 
Platte  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Birdwood  Creek.  Our 
guards  may  have  lacked  discipline,  for  they  had  no  time  to 
drill.  They  were  nearly  all  cowboys  and  ranchmen.  What 
they  lacked  in  dress  parade  tactics  they  made  up  in  courage 
and  in  deeds.  This  is  not  a  reflection  on  that  good  army 
officer,  Major  Walker,  who  accompanied,  us  and  shared  our 
hardships.  He  was  always  ready  to  do  and  dare.  "All  honor 
to  you,  Major!"  and  to  all  the  guards  who  stayed  with  us 
and  helped  to  make  it  one  of  the  most  successful,  though 
nearly  bloodless,  victories  ever  won  by  a  few  whites  against 
a  bunch  of  thieving  Sioux  Indians. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

Interesting   Developments — A    Trip    to    Pine    Ridge    and    Rosebud 

Agencies — Spotted   Tail — A   True  Friend — The  Town  of 

Whitman — A  Prayer  Meeting  in  a  Dance  Hall 

THE  following  spring  I  determined  to  go  and  see  the 
Indian  agents  at  Pine  Ridge  and  Rosebud,  also  to 
have  a  talk  with  Red  Cloud,  Spotted  Tail  and  other 
prominent  chiefs  of  the  Sioux  nation  at  those  agencies.  Ac- 
cordingly I  left  Sidney  in  the  early  part  of  April,  1879,  travel- 
ing by  stage  coach,  which  was  loaded  with  passengers — men 
and  women — en  route  to  the  Black  Hills  mining  camps.  I  was 
glad  to  leave  the  coach  at  Fort  Robinson,  from  which  point 
I  traveled  by  buckboard  to  Pine  Ridge,  better  known  in  these 
days  as  Red  Cloud  Agency. 

These  famous  Pine  Ridge  hills  extend  for  fifty  miles 
through  Sioux  and  Dawes  counties  and  all  who  have  viewed 
this  region  consider  it  one  of  the  most  picturesque  places  in 
Nebraska. 

At  Pine  Ridge  I  met  the  agent,  also  Red  Cloud  and  other 
prominent  chiefs,  and  my  young  friend,  Billy  Garner,  who 
was  interpreter.  He  was  the  same  Billy  Garner,  stepson  of 
John  Hunter,  to  whom  I  loaned  a  couple  of  revolvers  and 
boxes  of  cartridges  in  1867  at  Fort  Mitchell.  I  also  met 
my  old  friend,  Leon  Palladay.  Both  assisted  me  greatly  in 
explaining  my  mission  to  the  agent,  Red  Cloud  and  the  other 
chiefs.  I  gave  them  a  list  of  the  horse  and  cattle  brands 
owned  by  the  cattlemen  in  the  Platte  Valley  and  in  return 
I  received  a  list  of  their  brands.  I  also  told  them  of  the  Big 
Turkey  raid,  what  we  did  to  them,  and  referred  them  to  the 
letters  I  had  written.  All  of  this  met  their  hearty  approval. 
My  visit  created  a  good  feeling  between  the  Pine  Ridge  or 
Red  Cloud  agency  Indians  and  the  stockmen  of  the  "Shallow 
Water,"  the  Platte  Valley. 

270 


Trails  of  Yesterday  271 

My  friend  Palladay  loaned  me  a  horse  and  saddle  to 
take  me  to  the  Rosebud  Agency,  one  hundred  twenty-five 
miles  distant.  The  second  night  my  horse  played  out  while 
going  down  the  White  River  bottom.  I  tied  him  to  a  tree 
and  laid  down  on  my  saddle  blanket,  using  my  saddle  for  a 
pillow.  The  next  morning  I  was  awakened  early  by  some 
peculiar  sensation.  I  found  my  horse  jerking  on  his  rope 
and  on  opening  my  eyes,  discovered  I  was  surrounded  by  eight 
Indians.  They  asked  me  many  questions  in  Sioux:  Who  I 
was  ?  What  I  was  doing  there  ?  Where  I  was  from  ?  Where 
I  was  going?  I  told  them  I  was  "Yellow  Hair,"  a  "tagaliska 
wasichi"  (a  cattleman)  from  the  Shallow  Water  valley  (the 
Platte) ,  and  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  see  Spotted  Tail  and  the 
"Great  Father's"  man,  their  agent  at  Rosebud,  but  my  horse 
played  out  where  they  found  me  sleeping;  that  the  horse  had 
been  loaned  to  me  by  my  friend  Palladay,  the  interpreter  at 
Pine  -Ridge  Agency,  and  that  as  soon  as  my  horse  had  rested 
I  was  going  on  to  Spotted  Tail's  camp. 

One  of  the  Indians  could  speak  a  little  English.  He  told 
me  they  were  Indian  police  and  were  going  to  Rosebud 
Agency,  which  they  said  was  about  twelve  miles  distant  and 
I  could  accompany  them. 

I  had  eaten  the  small  sack  of  "pappa,"  consisting  of 
wild  meat  and  berries,  given  me  by  Palladay  for  lunch  the 
day  before,  and  gladly  accepted  a  small  chunk  of  dried  an- 
telope from  one  of  the  Indians,  cutting  it  into  thin  slices  and 
eating  it  as  we  rode  along. 

By  degrees  I  learned  that  these  Indians  were  out  looking 
for  horse  thieves  and  am  satisfied  they  took  me  for  one  when 
they  first  saw  me.  The  Indian  who  spoke  a  little  English 
told  me  a  great  deal  about  the  white  man  who  had  the  gold 
tooth.  This  was  the  gentleman  for  whose  capture  $1300.00 
had  been  paid.  They  claimed  that  many  of  their  horses  had 
been  stolen.  When  I  showed  them  a  list  of  their  brands  and 
told  them  what  we  had  done,  they  treated  me  more  kindly. 
I  told  them  what  we  had  done  to  Big  Turkey  the  previous 


272  Trails  of  Yesterday 

fall  on  the  Birdwood.  They  knew  about  this,  also  that  one 
Indian  was  killed  and  the  others  sent  back  without  any  clothes 
on  and  that  later  we  had  sent  their  captured  horses  back  to 
Rosebud  Agency.  They  also  knew  that  my  trip  to  their  agency 
was  to  have  a  talk  with  Spotted  Tail  and  other  chiefs,  and 
the  agent  at  Rosebud,  the  same  as  I  had  just  had  with  Red 
Cloud,  his  chiefs  and  agent,  who  approved  of  what  we  were 
doing  and  promised  to  cooperate  with  us — the  stockmen  of 
the  Shallow  Water  valley — to  break  up  these  gangs  of  horse 
thieves. 

Before  starting  they  had  relieved  me  of  my  gun,  revolvers 
and  knife,  also  of  my  field  glasses,  so  I  felt  that  I  was  not 
only  their  captive  but  at  their  mercy,  until  I  had  thoroughly 
explained  my  mission  when  they  regarded  me  as  a  friend  and 
treated  me  as  such,  but  took  special  care  of  me  until  they 
turned  me  over  to  the  Indian  agent  with  all  my  belongings. 

The  agent  treated  me  very  considerately  and  sent  for 
Spotted  Tail  and  other  chiefs,  many  of  whom  had  visited  our 
Home  Ranch,  where  I  had  many  times  fed  them  and  their 
ponies. 

After  shaking  hands  with  the  Indians,  who  appeared  glad 
to  see  me,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  Indian  agent  we  went 
to  the  Council  Chamber  where,  by  the  aid  of  the  interpreter, 
Tod  Randall,  I  explained  why  I  had  come  to  talk  with  them. 
The  agent  had  my  letters  to  him  and  Spotted  Tail  read  these 
and  they  were  explained  to  the  Indians  by  Spotted  Tail  and 
the  interpreter.  All  approved  of  what  we  had  done  and  were 
doing  to  break  up  the  stealing  of  live  stock  and  all  agreed 
to  help  me  and  the  stockmen  of  the  Platte  Valley  to  put  an 
end  to  it.  I  told  them  what  we  had  done  with  Big  Turkey 
and  his  band  who  came  down  to  steal  our  horses  and  I  asked 
that  the  Indians  do  the  same  with  all  white  men  who  came 
to  steal  their  horses. 

The  meeting  proved  a  very  satisfactory  one.  I  had 
printed  lists  of  all  known  horse  and  cattle  brands  in  Ne- 
braska from  Plum  Creek  west  to  the  Wyoming  and  Colorado 


Spotted  Tail 


Trails  of  Yesterday  21 Z 

lines.  In  return  I  received  from  the  agents  at  Pine  Ridge  and 
Rosebud  a  list  of  horse  and  cattle  brands  claimed  by  the  Sioux 
Indians.  Before  adjourning  the  council  the  pipe  of  peace 
was  lighted,  smoked  and  passed  around  from  one  to  the  other. 
The  best  of  feeling  was  manifested  by  all. 

I  was  invited  by  the  agent  to  dine  with  him,  but  I  did 
not  like  to  turn  down  Spotted  Tail's  invitation,  which  was 
also  extended  to  Tod  Randall,  the  interpreter;  hence  both  of 
us  accompanied  Spotted  Tail  to  his  lodge.  Here  I  met  several 
other  sub-chiefs,  No  Flesh,  Big  Crow  and  some  whose  names 
I  cannot  recall.  A  big  feast  was  prepared  for  us,  consisting 
of  a  large,  fat  dog,  fried  venison,  coffee  and  biscuits.  I  took 
the  venison,  coffee  and  biscuits. 

I  was  asked  to  tell  the  particulars  of  Big  Turkey's  raid, 
which  I  did,  and  all  present  said  we  had  done  right  in  treating 
Big  Turkey  and  his  followers  the  way  we  had,  and  it  would 
have  served  them  right  had  we  retained  their  horses  instead 
of  returning  them  and  some  others  that  were  said  to  have  been 
run  off  by  "Gold  Tooth"  and  his  rustlers. 

That  night  I  slept  with  Randall  in  Spotted  Tail's  tepee 
and  before  retiring  Spotted  Tail  called  us  both  aside  and 
cautioned  me  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  Big  Turkey  and  the 
relatives  of  the  Indian  who  died  from  the  effects  of  the  wound 
received  that  night  on  the  Birdwood.  Spotted  Tail  put  a 
guard  around  the  tepee.  Nothing  disturbed  us  except  the 
barking  of  many  dogs. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning  Spotted  Tail,  Randall 
and  I  went  to  the  agency  and  visited  the  store,  the  agent's 
office  and  other  buildings. 

I  had  closed  up  my  business  matters  with  the  agent  and 
was  returning  to  Spotted  Tail's  tepee  when  we  were  met  by 
several  squaws,  young  bucks  and  papooses,  who  were  crying 
without  shedding  a  tear.  I  had  heard  this  cry  before  at  other 
places  and  knew  what  it  meant.  Big  Turkey  and  other 
warriors  joined  them  before  we  reached  the  lodge.  Spotted 
Tail  told  Big  Turkey  and  those  who  were  in  that  Birdwood 


274  Trails  of  Yesterday 

raid  that  I  was  one  of  the  cattlemen  who  sent  them  back 
without  their  horses  and  without  any  clothes  on.  He  told 
this  little  band  of  Indians  to  stop  their  noise  and  return  to 
their  lodges.  Some  obeyed,  others  did  not  but  went  on  a 
distant  hill  and  cried  louder  than  before  until  Spotted  Tail 
sent  some  of  the  Indian  police  to  warn  them,  when  they  ceased 
and  disappeared.    I  presume  they  returned  to  their  lodges. 

I  had  arranged  to  return  on  horseback  by  way  of  Valen- 
tine and  across  country  by  Whitman  to  the  Birdwood  ranch. 
I  borrowed  a  good  horse  from  Randall  and  sent  the  Palladay 
horse  back  to  Pine  Ridge  by  the  mail  carrier.  I  left  Rosebud 
about  midnight  with  an  escort  of  six  agency  police,  who  ac- 
companied me  several  miles  on  the  road,  when  they  returned 
and  I  proceeded  on  to  Valentine,  where  I  arrived  shortly 
before  noon.  Five  days  later  I  arrived  at  our  ranch  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Birdwood,  feeling  that  although  the  trip  was 
a  hard  one  it  had  not  been  made  without  some  good  results 
to  both  the  Indians  and  the  cattlemen. 

I  cannot  mention  the  town  of  Whitman,  a  station  on  the 
B.  &  M.  Railroad,  east  of  Hyannis,  without  referring  to  an 
experience  I  had  there  shortly  after  it  was  located. 

We  were  on  a  spring  round-up,  ready  to  commence  work 
on  the  Dismal  rivers.  We  had  several  representatives  of 
Western  cattle  owners  who  had  come  to  gather  the  brands  of 
cattle  in  which  they  were  interested  and  some  of  these  had 
ridden  over  to  Whitman  to  participate  in  the  opening  of  a 
dance  house.  I  sent  a  trusty  man  over  to  tell  these  men  that 
we  were  ready  to  commence  work  and  could  not  wait  for  them 
much  longer.  They  sent  word  back  that  they  would  return 
in  a  day  or  two.  I  hated  to  commence  the  round-up  without 
them  and  thought  best  to  ride  over  to  Whitman  myself  on 
Friday  night.  I  arrived  there  late,  staked  my  horse  near  the 
station  and  there  being  no  spare  beds,  I  slept  in  the  station 
that  night,  not  caring  to  mix  with  the  cowboys,  graders,  and 
others  in  the  dance  house,  which  was  going  full  blast.  The 
next  morning  I  rounded  up  all  the  cowboys.  Some,  I  regret 
to  say,  were  nearer  drunk  than  sober.     They  asked  me  to 


Trails  of  Yesterday  275 

remain  until  that  night  when  the  expected  dance  was  to  come 
off.  I  reluctantly  consented.  There  were  some  forty  or  fifty 
men  and  probably  twenty  women.  These  women  at  one  time 
had  been  good  girls,  but  now,  God  pity  them ! 

I  took  a  look  into  the  dance  hall,  which  was  dimly  lighted 
with  several  coal-oil  lamps  standing  on  brackets  fastened  to 
the  sides  of  the  hall.  A  screeching  violin  was  furnishing  the 
music  and  a  half-drunken  gambler  was  calling  off  the  dances, 
which  lasted  on  an  average  of  five  to  ten  minutes,  when  the 
dancers  were  expected  to  go  up  to  the  bar  and  drink.  The 
smell  of  liquor  and  tobacco  smoke,  the  yelling  and  cursing, 
the  obscenity  of  language  and  manner  of  both  men  and 
women  were  sickening  and  disgusting,  and  I  was  sorry  I  had 
consented  to  remain. 

The  dancers  had  forced  a  good  old  preacher  on  the  floor 
and  were  making  him  dance  with  a  lewd,  drunken  woman. 
Some  of  the  men  occasionally  took  a  shot  at  his  feet,  bidding 
him  to  step  high.  Another  knocked  the  crown  of  his  plug  hat 
in  and  down  over  his  ears.  The  old  man  had  come  up  to  this 
terminal  of  the  B.  &  M.  Railroad  to  do  missionary  work 
among  the  graders  and  floating  scum  of  humanity  that  usually 
follow  in  the  wake  of  a  frontier  town.  All  seemed  to  be  bent 
on  giving  the  good  old  man  the  time  of  his  life.  He  stood 
it  all  good-naturedly  until  completely  exhausted.  He  got  into 
one  corner  of  the  hall  and  sat  down  on  the  floor.  After  rest- 
ing a  while  and  during  a  lull  in  the  dancing,  the  old  man  got 
upon  a  gambling  table  and  commenced  to  talk  to  the  crowd. 
He  said  he  had  attended  their  dances  every  night  and  done 
everything  they  wanted  him  to  do,  including  many  things  that 
were  not  right.  "Now,"  he  said,  "with  your  permission  and 
God's  help,  I  will  hold  service  in  this  hall  to-morrow,  Sunday 
night,"  and  asked  them  all  to  come.  They  told  him  they 
would  be  present.  I  could  not  help  but  admire  the  old  man 
and  told  him  I  would  remain  with  the  cowboys  from  our 
round-up  camp  and  would  personally  help  him  all  I  could. 

The  next  morning  I  skirmished  around  and  found  that 
the  station  agent  had  an  organ  and  his  good  wife  consented  to 


276  Trails  of  Yesterday 

play  for  the  service.  We  carried  the  organ  over  to  the  dance 
hall,  swept  out  the  hall  and  secured  a  promise  from  the  propri- 
etor of  the  hall  not  to  sell  any  liquor  during  the  service.  The 
old  missionary  made  out  a  program  for  the  service  and  that 
afternoon,  with  the  help  of  a  few  good  people,  we  practiced 
the  singing  of  the  hymns  to  be  used.  They  were  "Rock  of 
Ages,"  "Jesus,  Lover  of  My  Soul,"  "My  Country,  'Tis  of 
Thee,"  and  others. 

At  the  appointed  time  the  hall  was  nearly  filled.  On  a 
card  table  stood  a  coal-oil  lamp,  the  Bible  and  hymn  book 
beside  it.  The  old  missionary  opened  the  service  with  a  good, 
kind,  fatherly  talk,  then  we  sang  "Rock  of  Ages."  Tears 
came  into  the  eyes  of  some  of  the  women  and  all  seemed 
deeply  interested,  until  some  one  shot  the  lamp  to  pieces  on 
the  table.  This  mean  act  incurred  the  displeasure  of  nearly 
all  present.  Another  lamp  was  secured  and  "Doc"  Middleton 
walked  up  to  the  side  of  the  old  preacher  and  said,  "Whoever 
did  that  was  damn  mean  and  if  he  does  it  again,  I'll  kill  him." 
The  man  who  shot  the  lamp  left  the  hall  and  the  service  pro- 
ceeded without  further  interruption.  When  the  preacher 
finished,  I  proposed  to  pass  around  the  hat  to  take  up  a  col- 
lection for  him.  I  counted  some  one  hundred  thirty  dollars 
and  presented  it  to  the  good  old  man,  who  thanked  his 
audience  very  earnestly.  The  next  morning  he  took  the  first 
train  for  the  East,  probably  glad  that  he  was  living  and  no 
doubt  thinking  there  was  some  good  in  the  worst  of  us. 

The  writer  was  relating  this  experience  and  others  a  few 
years  ago  to  a  life  insurance  agent,  Mr.  C.  K.  Huntington  of 
Lincoln,  Nebraska,  who  came  into  his  office.  Imagine  the 
surprise  of  both  to  find  that  Mr.  Huntington  was  the  station 
agent  at  Whitman  at  that  time  and  it  was  his  good  wife  who 
played  the  organ.  Mr.  Huntington  said  that  he  could  vouch 
for  the  truth  of  every  statement  in  regard  to  this  incident  as 
told  by  the  writer. 

The  cowboys  and  I  came  on  to  the  round-up  camp  on  the 
Dismal  River  where  we  had  left  it.  On  the  way  some  of  the 
boys  talked  freely  and  regretted  what  they  had  done  and 


Doc"  Middleton 


Trails  of  Yesterday  277 

promised  to  do  better.  Some  of  the  readers  will  agree  with 
the  writer  in  his  estimate  of  "Doc"  Middleton,  who  may  have 
committed  some  crimes,  but  nevertheless  had  a  good  heart  in 
him  and  his  later  life  seems  to  prove  it.  He  spent  many  years 
in  Crawford,  Nebraska. 

"Shen-tag-a-lisk,"  my  friend,  better  known  as  Spotted 
Tail,  whose  tombstone  stands  in  Rosebud  cemetery,  should 
have  chiseled  on  it:  "Brave  in  war  and  faithful  to  his 
promises  in  peace." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

Active  Men  and  Strenuous  Activities — Colonel  W .  F.  Cody — 

Major  North — A  Speedy  Run — Crooked  Tie  Inspector — 

Credit  Mobilier — A  Dangerous  Undertaking 

I  FIRST  met  Colonel  W.  F.  Cody,  better  known  as  Buffalo 
Bill,  at  Fort  McPherson  in  1869,  when  I  was  filling  a 

twenty-eight  hundred  ton  hay  contract  for  the  United 
States  Government. 

At  this  time  W.  F.  Cody  was  scout  and  guide  and  was  kept 
busy  in  leading  troops  to  head  off  Indian  raids  on  emigrant 
and  freighting  outfits,  stage  coaches  and  settlers  going  over 
the  overland  trail  and  those  trying  to  establish  a  home  in 
western  Nebraska.  He  led  a  strenuous  life  and  was  an  all- 
around  good  fellow,  whom  everyone  liked,  not  a  few  taking 
advantage  of  his  generous  nature  and  well-known  hospitality. 
His  good  wife,  two  sisters  and  small  daughter,  Arta,  shared 
his  little  cottage  near  the  McDonald  store.  His  life,  prior  to 
this,  while  here,  and  subsequent  doings,  have  been  published 
and  are  a  matter  of  history  and  linked  with  the  early  settle- 
ment of  western  Nebraska,  Kansas  and  other  states  and  terri- 
tories. I  could  tell  of  many  Indian  raids  where  he  displayed 
both  courage  and  good  generalship,  sometimes  superior  to 
those  higher  in  command. 

Before  taking  up  the  Wild  West  show  business  he  em- 
barked in  the  cattle  business  on  the  head  of  the  South  Dismal 
River  in  company  with  Major  North  and  other  Columbus 
gentlemen.  Some  years  later  we  bought  their  stock  interest 
and  ranches,  for  $75,000.00,  after  which  the  Colonel  gave 
his  undivided  attention  to  his  show  business,  of  which  he  made 
a  grand  success. 

As  a  rule  he  would  spend  several  days  with  us  on  the 
annual  round-ups,  when  there  would  be  something  doing  be- 
sides actual  round-up  work.  To  make  things  safer  and  more 
Sunday-school  like,  all  revolvers  and  guns  would  be  gathered 

278 


Col.  W.  F.  Cody  \  Buffalo  Bill) 


Trails  of  Yesterday  279 

up  and  kept  under  lock,  since  some  of  the  cowboys  would  take 
advantage  of  the  Colonel's  hospitality  by  going  to  his  wagon 
and  helping  themselves  to  his  cigars  and  sampling  his  liquors 
that  had  been  brought  along  as  an  antidote  against  snake 
bites  and  other  accidents.  There  would  be  broncho  riding, 
roping,  racing,  riding  wild  steers,  swimming  contests,  and 
sometimes  a  friendly  poker  game  to  see  who  would  stand  on 
night  herd  the  longest.  The  cowboys  were  always  glad  to 
see  the  Colonel  and  the  cattle  owners  and  foremen  would  vie 
with  each  other  in  showing  him  a  good  time,  and  would  pre- 
pare special  feasts  and  meals  for  him  when  he  came  to  or  near 
their  ranches.     Nothing  was  too  good  for  Colonel  Cody. 

I  remember  attending  one  elaborate  ranch  dinner  given 
for  the  Colonel  by  the  Laing  Brothers  at  their  ranch  east  of 
the  Birdwood.  The  first  course  was  soup,  then  came  a  large 
kettle  of  boiled  beans.  All  passed  off  nicely  until  some  of  the 
hungry  ones,  among  them  George  Bosler,  James  Ware, 
Thomas  Lawrence,  Dick  Bean  and  Jerry  Dummer,  passed 
their  plates  back  to  Seine  Laing,  who  was  doing  the  serving 
at  the  head  of  the  table.  Seine  got  pretty  well  down  to  the 
bottom  of  the  kettle,  which  stood  before  him  on  the  table, 
when  he  struck  something  that  would  not  "cup  up."  Seine 
called  the  cook  whom  he  called  "Squire,"  to  bring  him  a  fork. 
This  was  done  and  Seine  brought  to  view  out  of  the  bottom 
of  the  kettle  the  blackest,  dirtiest,  greasiest  old  dish  cloth  or 
stove  rag  I  ever  saw.  This  ended  that  choice  Delmonico 
dinner  rather  quickly. 

Nothing  pleased  the  Colonel  more  than  to  be  allowed  to 
go  into  a  bunch  of  cattle  and  cut  out  strays.  He  was  too  strenu- 
ous a  worker  in  a  bunch  of  cows  and  calves.  He  did  better  in 
a  bunch  of  steers,  dry  cows  and  heifers.  As  soon  as  he  spotted 
one  in  "milling  and  ginning"  these  around,  it  would  have  to 
get  out  or  soon  be  carrying  a  lariat  around  its  neck.  When  I 
was  bossing  the  round-up  and  the  bunch  became  excited,  I 
would  call  Cody  out.  All  of  which  he  took  good  naturedly, 
knowing  well  that  rough  handling  of  stock  meant  loss  in  flesh 
and  shrinkage  in  value. 


280  Trails  of  Yesterday 

When  he  started  his  Wild  West  show  we  sold  him  a  large 
bunch  of  outlaw  cow  horses  and  some  of  our  expert  riders 
and  ropers  joined  his  show,  which  was  a  success  and  one  of 
the  best  educators  of  early  life  on  the  frontier  that  the  public 
ever  saw. 

Another  well-known  good  citizen,  a  former  partner  of 
Colonel  Cody  and  a  neighbor  of  the  Colonel's  in  the  cattle 
business,  was  Major  Frank  North,  Commander  of  the 
Pawnee  Scouts,  who  did  great  service  in  heading  off  and 
chasing  down  renegade  bands  of  Sioux  and  Cheyenne  Indians 
who  would  often  steal  away  from  their  reservations  and  make 
a  business  of  stealing  stock  and  other  property  that  they  found 
unprotected.  Major  North  was  also  captain  of  our  company 
of  North  Platte  Guards.  It  was  fortunate  for  Big  Turkey 
and  his  band  of  twenty-two  Sioux  that  we  chastised  on  the 
east  Birdwood,  that  Captain  North  and  his  scouts  were  not 
along.  There  would  have  been  no  Big  Turkey  or  band  to 
march  back  to  Rosebud.  The  Major  was  a  thorough  Western 
man,  big-hearted,  broad-minded,  always  on  the  side  of  right. 
The  hardships  he  had  endured  in  leading  his  scouts  to  victory 
in  many  campaigns  had  undermined  his  strong  constitution 
and  health  but  had  not  dampened  his  spirit  and  energy. 
While  we  would  be  enjoying  his  and  Colonel  Cody's  hospital- 
ity in  comfortable  beds  on  the  ranch  floors  at  the  ranch  at 
the  head  of  the  Dismal  River,  poor  Frank,  apparently  satisfied 
with  his  lot,  would  be  sitting  propped  up  in  a  chair,  unable 
to  lie  down  on  account  of  asthma.  In  Eugene  F.  Ware's 
work,  entitled  "The  Indian  War  of  1864,"  all  reference  to 
Major  Frank  North  and  the  work  of  his  scouts  will  be  read 
with  interest.  For  a  short  period  he  was  associated  with 
Colonel  Cody  in  his  show  business.  He  died  as  he  had  lived — 
unassuming  and  faithful  to  every  trust — and  lies  in  a  grave  at 
Columbus,  Nebraska,  honored  and  loved  by  all. 

In  addition  to  buying  the  Cody  and  North  brand  of  cattle, 
we  shipped  in  several  trainloads  of  cattle  from  Kings  River, 
Nevada.  I  had  divided  our  cattle  into  three  separate  bunches, 
using  the  same  circle  brand  but  in  different  places  on  the  ani- 


Trails  of  Yesterday  281 

mal.  We  kept  the  thoroughbred  cattle  at  the  Home  Ranch  in 
winter  and  summered  them  east  of  the  Birdwood  Creek.  The 
native  cattle  were  kept  at  Fox  Creek  and  the  other,  or  common 
cattle,  were  kept  north  of  the  North  Platte  River,  west  and 
north  of  the  Birdwood  Creek,  in  order  to  better  systematize 
our  business. 

In  shipping  the  cattle  from  Kings  River  I  met  the  first 
train  at  Winnemuck  and  came  on  with  it  to  its  destination, 
Ogallala,  Nebraska.  Everything  went  smoothly  until  we 
started  to  reload  at  Medicine  Bow,  where  we  stopped  to  graze 
them.  The  station  agent  at  the  Bow  had  interested  himself 
in  our  shipment  and  secured  me  right  of  way  and  clear  track 
to  Laramie,  provided  we  would  be  ready  to  leave  at  a  certain 
time.  I  put  what  I  thought  to  be  two  good,  competent  men 
to  count  and  tally  out  the  number  to  each  car.  I  took  the 
balance  of  the  boys  to  the  loading  chutes.  Everything  worked 
like  clockwork  until  one  of  the  counters  came  to  me  and  said 
he  had  about  forty  head  in  excess  of  what  he  should  have  for 
the  last  two  cars.  I  told  him  I  was  sorry  but  it  could  not  be 
remedied  now  and  to  push  them  into  the  last  two  cars.  They 
went  in  and  were  resting  their  front  feet  on  each  other's  backs 
and  horns.  The  doors  were  closed  and  by  that  time  one  of 
the  boys  returned  with  six  bottles  of  beer  from  Trobin's 
store.  Three  bottles  were  given  to  the  engineer  and  fireman 
and  three  to  the  conductor  and  brakeman,  with  request  that 
they  get  me  into  Laramie  as  fast  as  they  could  turn  the  wheels. 
I  began  to  think  they  were  doing  it  for  before  we  had  crossed 
Rock  River  the  twenty-eight  cars  of  cattle  were  moving  like 
a  cyclone.  The  engineer  commenced  to  whistle  for  brakes. 
The  conductor  was  tempted  to  set  some  but  hesitated  when  I 
told  him  to  let  go  and  that  we  would  come  out  all  right.  We 
went  through  the  snowsheds  like  a  flash.  On  a  curve  the 
wheels  hardly  touched  the  track.  We  flew  down  the  grade 
from  Cooper  Lake  like  an  avalanche.  I  had  not  touched  a 
drop  of  that  beer.  I  had  every  man  in  the  train  scared 
and  almost  believe  that  the  conductor  would  have  fallen  off 
the  caboose  had  I  let  go  of  his  coat.     I  was  sure  I  would 


282  Trails  of  Yesterday 

get  to  Laramie  with  that  train  of  cattle.  Everyone  was 
out  of  his  office,  including  Ed.  Dickinson,  the  chief  dis- 
patcher, who  shook  his  fist  at  us  as  we  rushed  through  the 
Laramie  yards  and  passed  them  nearly  two  miles  before  the 
engineer  could  stop  his  train.  As  soon  as  stopped  and  we  had 
backed  up,  I  told  Mr.  Dickinson  what  I  had  done  and  if  there 
were  any  damage  I  would  pay  for  it  and  assured  him  the 
crew  obeyed  my  orders.  I  asked  him  to  have  the  switch 
engine  take  off  eight  cars  at  the  west  end  of  the  train  so  I 
could  unload  them  and  level  the  cattle  up,  which  was  done. 
Some  of  the  cattle  in  the  two  rear  cars  were  down  and  badly 
trampled  but  all  got  up  and  walked  out  of  the  cars.  The  engi- 
neer and  conductor  were  laid  off  for  a  few  days  but  I  paid 
them  for  their  lost  time.  Mr.  Dickinson  impressed  upon  my 
mind  very  forcibly  that  in  the  future  I  could  not  run  any  trains 
over  his  division  but  I  told  him  I  had  no  inclination  to  repeat 
that  run.  If  that  train  of  cattle  had  gone  in  the  ditch  I  would 
have  been  responsible  for  all  damages. 

After  leveling  up  our  overloaded  cars,  Mr.  Dickinson 
gave  us  two  fresh  engines,  with  right  of  way  over  east  bound 
freight  to  Ogallala.  To  this  point  we  had  another  good  run. 
The  cattle  were  all  unloaded,  not  much  the  worse  for  the  bad 
treatment  received  in  the  two  rear  cars  from  Medicine  Bow 
to  Laramie. 

Had  this  incident  occurred  in  these  modern  days  of  rail- 
roading, all  concerned  would  have  been  not  only  discharged 
but  perhaps  railroaded  to  the  penitentiary  for  life.  These 
times  were  hard  and  very  trying  to  railroad  presidents  and 
managers  of  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad  company.  What 
about  the  dark  days  when  the  pay  car  would  not  visit  us  once 
in  three  months?  Yet,  no  one  ever  accused  a  single  Union 
Pacific  official,  big  or  little,  of  doing  wrong. 

I  will  take  that  back.  I  do  remember  a  tie  inspector's 
going  crooked  once,  not  for  money  but  for  two  bottles  of 
whiskey. 

I  had  refused  to  receive  a  bunch  of  about  six  thousand 
ties  gotten  out  for  us  on  contract  by  a  bunch  of  Canadian 


Trails  of  Yesterday  283 

Frenchmen  because  they  did  not  come  up  to  specifications. 
The  Canadians  contended  I  was  too  exacting.  I  told  them  I 
could  not  help  it  and  that  I  would  pay  them  for  every  tie  that 
measured  up  to  specifications.  They  finally  asked  if  I  would 
pay  for  all  ties  received  by  the  railroad  company  inspector. 
I  told  them  I  was  obliged  to  do  so.  They  finally  got  the  in- 
spector to  their  tie  camp  one  bitter  cold  day  and  with  the  aid 
of  the  whiskey  got  him  to  spot  every  tie.  Many  were  short 
and  did  not  have  a  six  inch,  let  alone  an  eight  inch  face. 
When  I  found  out  what  the  inspector  had  done  I  remon- 
strated with  him  for  his  actions  in  thus  defrauding  the 
company.  He  gave  as  an  excuse  the  answer  that  the  men 
were  poor,  that  they  had  been  very  kind  to  him  in  giving  him 
whiskey  and  he  thought  he  would  do  them  a  good  turn,  and 
besides,  the  Casement  Brothers  needed  the  ties  badly.  He 
asked  if  I  would  not  put  teams  enough  to  haul  them  so  they 
could  be  loaded  the  next  day.  Before  the  week  was  out  these 
ties  had  been  ironed.  The  Casement  Brothers  were  building 
two  and  a  half  to  three  and  a  half  miles  of  railroad  at  this 
time  in  a  single  day  and  maybe  the  tie  inspector's  conscience 
overlooked  his  idea  of  right  and  wrong  by  blinding  it  with 
the  shadow,  "Had  to  have  them." 

We  paid  the  contractor  as  agreed.  He  afterwards  quit 
the  tie-making  business  and  embarked  in  the  cattle  and  sheep 
business,  at  which  he  made  over  half  a  million  dollars. 

I  met  this  same  gentleman  some  years  ago  in  Salt  Lake 
and  rode  with  him  to  his  home  station  in  Wyoming.  The 
poor  fellow  was  all  in  physically.  He  justified  his  action  in 
giving  the  whiskey  to  the  tie  inspector  by  saying  if  he  had  not 
done  so,  the  inspector  might  have  frozen  and  would  have 
failed  to  inspect  the  ties  and  in  that  event,  his  men  would  not 
have  received  the  money  tor  the  ties,  which  the  Union  Pacific 
needed  badly,  hence  it  was  a  blessing  all  around.  This  was 
another  side  to  it  as  told  by  good-hearted  Tom  Sims. 

These  were  dark  financial  days  for  Credit  Mobilier.  It 
took  nerve  to  continue  putting  money  into  that  hopper  to 
build  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad.    When  I  was  manager  for 


284  Trails  of  Yesterday 

that  great  tie  and  wood  firm,  Gilman  &  Carter,  composed  of 
Isaac  Coe,  Levi  Carter,  and  John  and  Jed  Gilman,  we  were 
paying  out  daily  five  thousand  to  ten  thousand  dollars  of  good 
greenbacks  for  Credit  Mobilier  paper  of  questionable  value 
and  of  which  we  had  already  an  accumulation  of  over  eleven 
hundred  thousand  dollars.  Heretofore,  we  had  sent  these 
accumulations  to  our  bankers  in  Omaha,  but  these  gentlemen 
told  us  they  had  about  all  they  could  use  for  the  present. 

General  Coe  came  into  camp  about  this  time  and  asked 
what  amount  of  money  it  would  take  to  run  the  camps  for 
thirty  days.  I  told  him  as  nearly  as  I  could  and  he  told  me  to 
keep  right  along  and  draw  on  him.  Before  leaving,  I  loaded 
him  up  with  all  the  Credit  Mobilier  paper  we  had  and  he  took 
the  first  train  for  New  York  with  a  determination  to  interview 
Thomas  C.  Durant.  A  few  days  afterwards  he  wired  that 
money  was  tight  but  he  had  succeeded  in  getting  a  part  of 
our  claim. 

Many  other  tie  makers  were  getting  cold  feet.  The  men 
of  the  Sprague  &  Davis  Co.  (who  had  quarters  near  us)  so 
scared  that  firm  with  a  rope  with  a  noose  in  it,  that  they 
pulled  out  between  suns.  What  would  be  our  fate  ?  We  had 
faith  but  it  took  more  than  faith  to  pay  for  ties,  logs  and 
poles.  We  followed  the  line  of  road  along  established  camps 
on  the  Laramie,  Medicine  Bow,  Fort  Steel,  and  other  points. 

Credit  Mobilier  had  carried  out  its  promises  as  far  as 
able.  It  had  taken  no  advantage  of  us  and  with  the  present 
management  in  control  we  had  little  to  fear.  We  were  getting 
good  prices  for  our  material.  Union  Pacific  stocks  and  bonds 
were  being  tossed  around  in  Wall  street  from  front  door  to 
rear.  There  was  no  market  value  for  any  of  them.  Jay 
Gould  and  his  trimmers  were  in  control.  The  pessimists  were 
thick  and  noisy.  They  gave  it  out  that  the  road  could  not  be 
built  and  if  built,  it  would  never  pay.  Not  satisfied  with  this 
dirty  work,  the  would-be  "rule  or  ruin"  fellows  started  a 
government  investigation  of  Credit  Mobilier  accounts.  All 
this  was  done  for  spite  and  to  harass  the  Credit  Mobilier  Co., 
that  had  many  good  defenders  both  in  the  House  and  Senate, 


Trails  of  Yesterday  285 

also  able  defenders  like  George  Francis  Train  and  Dr. 
George  L.  Miller. 

While  the  Union  Pacific  had  had  some  good  men  at  its 
head,  it  also  had  its  Adams.  It  now  had  the  noblest  Roman 
of  them  all — S.  H.  H.  Clark.  He  was  broken  down  in  health, 
but  his  name  was  a  talisman  in  the  household  of  every  em- 
ployee on  the  system.  If  the  pay  checks  did  not  show  up  in 
time,  a  word  from  Mr.  Clark  would  set  everything  right. 
He  was  loved  by  all  and  no  other  railroad  president  ever 
lived  who  carried  such  loyalty  of  employees.  The  humblest 
section  hand  was  always  welcome  to  talk  with  him  and  shake 
his  hand. 

Credit  Mobilier  had  carried  out  its  obligations  with  its 
sub-contractors.  We  had  not  lost  a  dollar  by  it,  though  our 
Company  had  backed  it  with  its  capital  and  all  of  its  credit. 
It  had  accomplished  its  object — the  Union  Pacific  Railroad 
had  been  built  and  the  Golden  Spike  uniting  the  Atlantic  and 
the  Pacific  oceans  had  been  driven. 

I  happened  to  be  in  Omaha  when  rumor  had  it  that  the  city 
was  overrun  with  United  States  Secret  Service  men  hunting  for 
Credit  Mobilier  information  and  its  books.  I  was  ap- 
proached by  some  of  these  gentlemen  and  questioned  some- 
what closely  as  to  the  extent  of  our  Company's  business 
relations  with  Credit  Mobilier.  I  told  them  frankly  that  its  re- 
lations with  us  had  been  strictly  honorable,  that  at  one  time  we 
had  carried  over  eleven  hundred  thousand  dollars  of  its  paper, 
that  we  had  backed  it  with  every  dollar  of  our  Company's  cash 
and  credit,  and  would  not  be  afraid  to  do  it  again.  I  could 
have  told  these  gentlemen  where  its  books  were  had  I  been 
asked,  and  perhaps  have  received  a  valuable  remuneration  for 
so  doing  had  I  desired.  Enough  to  say,  that  about  8  130  that 
evening  a  certain  trusty  man  was  called  to  accompany  two 
baggage  cars,  a  private  car  and  special  engine  with  right  of 
way.  Engines  were  changed  at  Grand  Island,  North  Platte, 
Cheyenne  and  other  terminals.  It  is  said  the  little  train  be- 
came lost  near  Point  of  Rocks.  The  weather  became  so 
intensely  cold  that  the  contents  of  the  boxes  had  to  be  burned 


286  Trails  of  Yesterday 

to  prevent  the  man  in  charge  from  freezing.  He  returned  to 
Omaha  later  but  has  now  passed  away.  I  once  talked  with 
him  about  this  matter  and  he  told  me  that  the  books  were 
straight  and  the  only  thing  they  might  have  possibly  revealed 
was  the  limited  holdings  of  some  of  the  Credit  Mobilier  stock 
by  a  few  senators  and  congressmen.  It  was  "much  ado  about 
nothing." 

In  closing  this  article  there  are  no  apologies  to  make  for 
any  Union  Pacific  official.  If  any  crime  was  committed,  it 
was  done  by  others  and  not  by  them. 

During  the  fall  of  1884  we  sold  to  Patrick  Brothers  of 
Omaha  some  four  hundred  beef  steers  to  be  delivered  the 
following  February  at  one  of  the  breweries  at  Peoria,  Illinois. 
When  ready  to  ship  there  was  six  to  eight  inches  of  drifted, 
frozen  snow  on  the  ground,  making  it  impossible  to  drive  the 
steers  to  North  Platte  without  making  their  feet  and  legs  sore. 
A  few  days  before  the  time  of  shipment  arrived,  another  snow 
of  about  three  inches  fell,  making  it  more  difficult  to  drive 
the  steers  to  North  Platte  for  shipment.  The  Birdwood 
Creek  for  nearly  two  miles  distant  from  its  mouth  and  the 
North  Platte  River  in  that  vicinity,  were  frozen  solid.  I  had 
crossed  the  river  just  above  the  mouth  of  the  Birdwood  many 
times  with  teams  and  to  test  the  ice  further,  had  loaded  two 
wagons  heavily  with  dirt  and  crossed  them  several  times, 
which  satisfied  me  of  its  strength  to  hold  the  steers  if  we 
could  keep  them  strung  out,  so  I  ordered  the  cars  sent  from 
North  Platte  to  O'Fallons'  station,  determined  to  ship  from 
there.  The  day  previous  to  shipping  we  made  several  trips 
with  teams,  loose  horses  and  work  cattle,  scattering  hay  on 
the  snow,  making  a  very  plain  trail  across  about  forty  to 
sixty  feet  wide.  During  the  night  there  blew  up  a  very  strong 
wind  that  swept  every  particle  of  snow  and  hay  off  the  track 
we  had  made,  leaving  the  ice  bare  and  slippery.  At  three 
o'clock  that  morning  I  had  several  teams  and  many  men 
sanding  the  river,  making  a  track  as  wide  as  before.  By 
noon  we  had  the  crossing  complete  after  having  driven  over  it 
many  times  with  teams,  loose  horses  and  work  cattle.     The 


Trails  of  Yesterday  287 

ice  still  seemed  solid.  I  knew  the  risk  I  was  about  to  take — 
that  I  might  lose  a  lot  of  steers — but  I  had  confidence  that  I 
would  come  through  all  right. 

We  had  an  early  dinner  and  when  ready  to  start,  I  put 
Mike  Foster  in  the  lead  with  a  good  team  hitched  to  a  spring 
wagon.  Following  this  I  had  a  four-horse  team  hitched  to  a 
hay  rack  full  of  loose  hay.  Next  followed  about  twenty 
head  of  gentle  work  cattle,  then  the  beef  steers  with  a  total 
of  about  sixteen  good  cowboys  for  the  flanks  and  rear  of  the 
steers.  All  had  proper  instructions  as  to  places  and  what  to 
do  in  emergencies  in  event  the  steers  commenced  to  crowd  or 
bunch  up.  I  took  the  east  or  left  flank  a  little  ahead  of  the 
center  of  the  bunch  so  that  I  could  move  quickly  to  the  lead, 
center  or  drop  to  the  rear,  wherever  needed.  All  went 
smoothly  for  the  first  quarter  of  a  mile  until  we  reached  the 
ice  over  deeper  channels,  when  the  ice  began  to  crack, 
frightening  the  steers,  and  they  began  to  bunch.  I  motioned 
to  the  driver  of  the  hay  team  to  keep  going  and  to  the  men  to 
close  up  on  the  cattle  in  order  to  keep  them  moving.  The 
cattle  did  so,  but  only  when  forced  vigorously  by  the  cowboys. 
The  continued  cracking  and  later  the  heaving  and  sagging  of 
the  ice  frightened  and  excited  the  steers,  which  kept  on 
bunching,  the  ice  gradually  sinking.  The  hay  team  was  ahead 
and  out  of  danger.  Not  so  with  Mike  Foster's  team,  which 
I  saw  was  gradually  going  down  on  a  large  cake  of  ice.  It 
took  every  man  and  all  his  nerve  to  stay  by  and  hold  those 
steers  from  breaking  back.  The  ice  went  down  and  with  it 
the  steers  and  every  man  into  four  to  six  feet  of  water.  For 
a  time  it  looked  as  though  many  of  the  steers  and  riders  would 
be  sucked  under  the  ice  by  the  swift  current.  Where  I  and 
some  of  the  cowboys  were  on  the  lower  side  it  looked  like 
certain  death,  as  large  floating  cakes  of  ice  ten  to  fourteen 
inches  thick  kept  breaking  loose  by  the  milling  of  the  steers 
and  floating  down  on  to  us  on  the  lower  side.  I  realized  that 
our  only  show  was  to  crowd  the  steers  forward.  Sometimes 
they  were  two  and  three  deep,  some  down  on  the  ice  in  the 
water,  others  climbing  over  and  on  their  backs.     In  this  way 


288  Trails  of  Yesterday 

they  commenced  to  break  and  loosen  the  ice  ahead  as  they 
continued  wallowing  over  it  until  they  got  into  shallower 
water  where  the  ice  was  strong  enough  to  hold  them  up.  We 
thus  kept  them  going  until  we  reached  the  south  bank  of  the 
river  with  the  entire  bunch,  including  the  work  cattle  and 
loose  horses,  which  took  their  baths  more  philosophically  than 
the  steers.  Our  cowboys  were  all  accounted  for  and  Mike 
Foster,  with  the  little  black  team  but  minus  the  seat  on  the 
wagon,  came  as  far  as  he  could  at  the  tail  end  of  the  cattle. 
We  had  to  pull  the  wagon  out  of  the  broken  ice  with  saddle 
ropes  in  order  to  give  the  team  a  footing  on  the  icy  trail  again. 
We  experienced  some  trouble  in  getting  our  saddle  horses 
out  of  the  water  upon  the  ice.  Many  of  us  had  to  dismount 
in  doing  so.  Every  man  was  wet  all  over  and  his  clothes  were 
frozen  stiff  on  him  a  few  moments  after  getting  out  of  the 
water.  As  soon  as  all  were  out  a  couple  of  men  and  I  went 
ahead  to  get  the  loading  pens  and  chutes  in  readiness. 

We  got  the  steers  into  the  pens  all  right  and  in  less  than 
two  hours  had  them  loaded  and  started  on  a  train  for  North 
Platte  en  route  to  Peoria  in  charge  of  faithful  Mike  Foster 
and  another  good  man.  I  sent  the  little  team  and  the  four- 
horse  hay  team  to  the  Home  Ranch  that  night  and  I  returned 
to  the  Birdwood  Ranch  with  the  rest  of  the  cowboys.  In  re- 
crossing  the  river  with  the  work  cattle  and  loose  horses,  we  all 
had  another  cold  bath. 

"Negro"  Johnson,  our  broncho  buster,  and  another  cow- 
boy, tried  to  cross  the  river  about  four  hundred  yards  above 
us.  They  got  safely  across  the  deep  channels  by  crawling 
over  on  their  stomachs,  but  their  saddle  horses  went  in. 

That  night  I  drove  back  to  the  Home  Ranch  and  after 
a  change  of  clothes,  took  the  train  east  to  Council  Bluffs, 
where  I  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  steers,  that  we  finally  un- 
loaded at  Peoria.  They  had  had  a  hard  trip  and  were  rather 
gaunt  but  there  were  no  "crips." 

I  cannot  close  this  tale  of  that  remarkable  crossing  of 
those  "beeves"  over  the  frozen  North  Platte  River,  without 
a  word  of  praise   for  our   faithful  cowboys,   among  them 


Trails  of  Yesterday  289 

"Negro"  Johnson,  who  did  his  part  nobly  during  that  thrilling 
adventure. 

Johnson  later  worked  for  a  well-known  cattle  and  horse 
man  residing  in  North  Platte.  This  gentleman  was  in  the 
habit  of  swearing  at  Johnson,  which  he  at  last  resented,  telling 
him  that  if  he  had  to  take  these  cursings,  he  would  want  more 
pay.  He  was  asked  how  much  more  he  wanted  and  said  it 
was  worth  $5.00  per  month  more.  The  deal  was  closed  and 
the  cursing  continued  more  vigorously. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

Many  Irons  in  the  Fire — The  Birdwood  and  Blue  Creek  Canals — 

I  am  Introduced  as  "Mr.  Kelly" — The  Equitable  Farm  and 

Stock  Improvement  Company — Dissolution  of  Partnership 

IN  addition  to  managing  our  large  cattle  interests,  we 
built,  with  the  aid  of  proposed  water  users,  the  Birdwood 
Canal,  some  twenty  miles  long.  The  water  for  this  canal 
was  taken  out  of  the  Birdwood  Creek  and  diverted  into  the 
canal  about  one  mile  above  its  confluence  with  the  North 
Platte  River.  The  Birdwood  Creek  is  fed  by  springs  of  soft 
water  that  evidently  come  from  what  is  termed  the  Lake 
Country,  ranging  from  seventy-five  to  one  hundred  fifty  miles 
north  and  northwest  of  the  heads  of  the  East  and  West  Bird- 
wood  Creeks.  These  numerous  springs  remain  about  the  same 
the  year  round  and  make  a  perpetual  stream  in  what  may  be 
termed  the  Birdwood  proper  of  about  two  hundred  fifty 
cubic  feet  per  second,  one-half  of  which  can  be  turned  into  the 
Birdwood  Canal  and  is  capable  of  irrigating  some  75,000 
acres  of  hay  and  tillable  land  lying  below  it.  The  cost  of 
water  and  of  maintaining  the  canal  for  years  after  its  con- 
struction was  a  very  trifling  sum  annually.  After  we  dis- 
posed of  our  interests  in  the  canal,  unfortunately  it  got  into 
the  hands  of  schemers  and  promoters,  who  persuaded  the 
owners  of  land  under  or  adjacent  to  it  to  form  an  irrigation 
district  and  bond  it  for  about  $25,000.00.  The  promoters 
pocketed  several  thousand  dollars  of  this. 

In  order  to  work  this  scheme  through,  a  certain  per  cent 
of  the  proceeds  from  the  sale  of  the  bonds  was  paid  to  those 
having  original  water  rights  in  the  canal.  These  now  realized 
the  fact  that  they  had  to  pay  principal  and  interest  on  these 
bonds,  besides  a  heavy  annual  maintenance  tax  to  keep  up  the 
ditch  and  pay  officers'  salaries.  The  original  owners  of  the 
ditch  may  have  received  $3.00  per  acre  for  their  equity  and 
before  they  got  through  the  deal  might  cost  them  $8.00  per 

290 


Trails  of  Yesterday  291 

acre.  This  is  high  finance.  The  promoters  of  this  scheme 
must  have  pocketed  $10,000.00  pure  velvet. 

There  is  no  better  or  purer  water  than  that  Birdwood 
Creek  water.  It  possesses  great  medicinal  properties  and  has 
been  known  to  cure  several  bad  cases  of  Bright's  disease  and 
kidney  troubles.  It  should  be  piped  to  the  city  of  North 
Platte  for  domestic  use  and  could  be  made  to  supply  the 
Union  Pacific  at  Hershey,  Birdwood  Siding  and  North 
Platte,  where  it  would  have  a  fall  of  one  hundred  forty  feet, 
giving  the  best  fire  protection.  The  expense  of  pumping 
could  be  saved,  and  North  Platte  would  have  one  of  the  best 
water  systems  in  the  state. 

We  also  built  the  Blue  Creek  Canal,  from  seven  to  nine 
miles  long.  The  water  was  taken  out  of  the  Blue  Creek  on  its 
east  side  a  little  north  of  the  town  of  Lewellen.  This  stream, 
like  the  Birdwood,  gets  its  source  of  supply  from  the  Lake 
Country.  The  water  is  pure  and  soft  and  no  doubt  possesses 
similar  medicinal  properties.  This  canal  is  known  as  the  Bratt 
ditch  and  is  one  of  the  best  little  canals  in  the  state.  It  waters 
several  thousand  acres  of  land  that  never  fails  to  raise  good 
crops. 

We  also  made  part  of  the  survey  to  build  a  canal  about 
seventy  miles  long,  taking  the  water  out  of  the  north  side  of 
the  North  Platte  River  a  couple  of  miles  west  of  Oshkosh. 
We  spent  over  $10,000.00  in  preliminary  surveys  for  this 
canal,  the  tail  water  of  which  we  proposed  to  turn  into  the 
West  Birdwood  Creek.  The  object  of  building  this  canal  was 
for  the  purpose  of  irrigating  what  we  could  of  the  Ogallala 
Cattle  Company's  land  east  of  Blue  Creek  and  some  of  our 
1 23,000  acres  that  we  owned  east  of  White  Tail  Creek,  north- 
east of  Ogallala.  We  would  probably  have  constructed  this 
canal  had  we  not  disposed  of  our  land. 

I  must  here  tell  a  little  story. 

When  I  went  to  file  on  the  location  for  the  water  right 
for  this  proposed  canal  I  took  with  me  our  surveyor,  Charles 
Walker,  and  Ed.  Richards,  our  foreman  at  the  Birdwood 
ranch,  both  well  known  in  that  country.    I  was  only  known  by 


292  Trails  of  Yesterday 

a  few  old  timers  and  it  was  suggested  that  Walker  and 
Richards  introduce  me  as  Mr.  Kelly,  a  sheep  man,  looking 
for  a  location  to  place  a  band  of  sheep. 

On  our  route  from  the  Birdwood  ranch  with  team  hitched 

to  a  light  wagon,  we  were  lucky  to  make  Mr.  and  Mrs 's 

ranch  for  dinner.  The  gentleman  of  the  ranch  was  not  there, 
but  the  lady,  knowing  Richards  and  Walker  well,  served  us 
a  nice  dinner.  Of  course,  I  as  "Mr.  Kelly,"  talked  about 
nothing  but  sheep.  When  we  got  through  and  were  ready  to 
depart,  Richards  asked  the  lady  what  the  bill  was.  Knowing 
that  he  worked  for  us,  she  innocently  inquired  whether  they 
or  Mr.  Bratt  had  to  pay  it,  remarking  that  if  Bratt  paid  it, 
it  would  be  more  than  if  we  three  paid  it.  Richards  told  her 
that  Bratt  did  not  pay  for  the  dinner,  so  I  presume  the  cost 
was  less,  which  Richards  paid  with  a  smile.  That  night  we 
stayed  at  Bob  Graff's,  where  I  was  well  known,  and  I  think 
the  next  morning  the  lady  found  out  that  I  was  Mr.  Bratt 
and  not  "Mr.  Kelly." 

I  have  seen  this  good  lady  since.  Maybe  she  remembers 
Richards'  deception,  as  well  as  my  own  as  "Mr.  Kelly,"  the 
sheep  man,  and  maybe  she  knows  the  reason  why  I  should 
pay  more  for  the  dinner  than  the  other  fellows — I  don't. 

Enough  to  say  we  located  the  water  right  under  the  name 
of  the  Midland  Irrigation  and  Land  Co.,  of  which  Frank 
Murphy,  President  of  the  Merchants  National  Bank  of 
Omaha,  was  president,  and  Mr.  Markell  of  Omaha  was 
another  officer. 

In  order  to  handle  our  business  in  better  shape  we  in- 
corporated the  firm  of  John  Bratt  &  Co.  under  the  name  of 
the  Equitable  Farm  and  Stock  Improvement  Co. 

After  disposing  of  our  north  side  lands  we  closed  out  our 
cattle  interests.  We  did  not  come  out  with  as  much  money  as 
we  should  have  owing  to  some  very  unfortunate  deals  made 
by  one  of  our  partners,  who  seemed  bent  on  a  "rule  or  ruin" 
policy,  no  doubt  due  to  advanced  age  and  broken-down  health. 

Of  Mr.  Carter  I  can  say  none  but  kindly  words  except 
that  had  he  felt  like  protecting  our  interests,  he  could  have 


John  Bratt 

Taken  in  the  year  1892 


Trails  of  Yesterday  293 

done  so,  since  the  two  of  us  held  three-fifths  of  the  stock  in 
the  Equitable  Company.  Several  bad  deals  could  have  thus 
been  prevented;  but  family  ties,  and  a  dislike  to  antagonize 
the  General,  no  doubt  caused  him  to  acquiesce  in  the  General's 
unfortunate  exchange  of  the  Equitable  Company's  Nebraska 
interests  for  encumbered  Ohio  and  Kentucky  property,  in 
which  we  got  the  worst  of  the  deal  by  nearly  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  I  remonstrated  many  times  against  these 
deals  but  to  no  purpose.  After  the  exchange  was  made  I  was 
sent  down  to  look  over  the  property,  examine  titles,  and  care 
for  other  details.  The  price  of  every  piece  of  property  we  re- 
ceived was  padded  25%  to  50%  and  some  of  them  were  not 
worth  the  mortgages  against  them.  All  of  which  General 
Coe,  as  President  of  the  Equitable  Farm  and  Stock  Improve- 
ment Co.,  assumed  and  agreed  to  pay. 

But  no  matter.  Both  partners  are  now  dead.  Let  them 
rest  in  peace.  As  I  sit  writing  these  truthful  facts  of  inside 
history  of  our  copartnership,  I  am  happy  in  the  thought  that 
I  never  took  advantage  of  either  of  these  partners,  although 
I  could  have  defrauded  them  out  of  thousands  of  dollars  with- 
out their  knowing  it.  For  a  period  of  five  years  neither  of 
them  saw  our  stock  and  ranches.  Both  had  implicit  confi- 
dence in  my  management  and  honesty.  No  matter  how  hard 
the  task,  often  at  the  risk  of  my  life,  I  always  tried  to  do  my 
duty.    Whether  I  did  it  or  not,  the  reader  can  judge. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

Conclusion — Two    Terms   as   Mayor — Real   Estate   and   Insurance 

Business — A  Threatening  Letter — Brief  Review  of  My 

Career 

1HAD  closed  up  company  matters  with  Coe  &  Carter  and 
disposed  of  my  stock  in  the  Equitable  Farm  and  Stock 
Improvement  Co.,  when  in  the  spring  of  1898  I  was 
urged  by  many  good  citizens  of  both  parties  to  become  a 
candidate  for  mayor  of  North  Platte. 

The  city  had  been  mismanaged  and  exploited  for  years. 
Both  money  and  credit  were  gone,  not  by  theft  but  by  reck- 
less mismanagement  of  its  financial  affairs.  It  owed  some 
$7000.00,  drawn  on  the  general  fund  without  any  authority 
of  law  and  no  provision  made  to  pay  it.  All  could  have  been 
repudiated,  but  it  had  been  the  custom  to  contract  debts  in  this 
manner,  hence  the  holders  of  this  illegal  paper  were  entitled 
to  their  pay.  This  was  the  way  I  looked  at  it.  In  addition 
to  this  the  former  city  attorney  had  stipulated  all  the  city's 
rights  away  and  virtually  confessed  judgment  to  the  North 
Platte  Water  Company  for  $11,057.90  for  back  hydrant 
rental,  which  Judge  Norris,  the  trial  judge,  said  the  city  must 
pay,  notwithstanding  the  water  company  had  received  every 
dollar  that  a  seven  mill  levy  raised. 

The  city  was  run  "loose."  Gambling  was  a  recognized 
vocation  and  drunks  on  the  streets  were  a  common  sight. 

Immoral  houses  were  numerous  and  it  seemed  that  the 
good  people  of  North  Platte  were  helpless.  Saloons  were 
run  without  restraint. 

With  this  picture  before  me  I  must  have  been  seeking 
trouble  when  I  consented  to  become  a  candidate  and  told  the 
delegation  of  non-partisan  business  men  who  waited  on  me 
that,  while  I  did  not  seek  the  honor,  I  felt  it  my  duty,  as  a 
citizen  of  North  Platte,  to  accept  it,  on  condition  that  there 
were  no  strings  on  me;  that  although  I  was  a  Democrat,  I  was 

294 


Trails  of  Yesterday  295 

broad  enough  to  ignore  politics;  that  in  any  appointments  I 
might  make,  qualities  of  the  man  and  his  ability  to  serve  the 
city's  interests  would  come  first;  that  if  elected  mayor,  many 
radical  changes  that  some  might  not  like  would  occur; 
gambling  would  have  to  cease;  saloon  keepers  must  obey  the 
law.  Drunkenness  on  the  streets  would  not  be  tolerated,  the 
selling  of  liquor  to  minors  must  stop,  nor  would  they  be  al- 
lowed in  saloons.  The  city  marshal  and  police  would  be 
given  their  orders  and  obey  them  or  resign.  I  proposed  to 
make  mine,  if  aided  by  the  council,  a  business  administration, 
with  the  view  of  lifting  the  city  out  of  debt,  and  a  dollar's 
value  would  have  to  be  shown  for  every  one  expended. 

Enough  to  say  that  my  election  was  nearly  unanimous. 
A  council  of  good  citizens  was  elected  to  aid  me. 

After  election  I  called  the  council  together  at  my  office 
for  a  conference,  at  which  meeting  I  showed  the  financial 
condition  of  the  city — the  stipulated  amount  due  the  water 
company  as  per  judgment  rendered,  and  the  $7000.00  of 
floating  debt  due  by  the  city  to  our  citizens,  who  were  clamor- 
ing for  their  money.  I  impressed  upon  the  minds  of  those 
present  our  duty  to  provide  payment  for  same  by  practising 
the  strictest  economy  in  order  to  pay  30%  to  50%  of  the 
floating  indebtedness  and  25%  of  the  $11,057.90  due  the 
water  company  during  our  first  year.  In  order  to  help  this 
proposition  along  I  proposed  to  cut  my  salary  in  two  and 
asked  the  members  of  the  council  to  do  the  same,  to  which 
they  all  readily  agreed.  We  decided  what  cut  we  should 
make  on  other  city  officials  and  employees.  There  was  some 
underground  objection  to  these  cuts,  but  we  made  them,  thus 
saving  the  city  over  $750.00  in  salaries  the  first  year. 

I  had  a  friendly  talk  with  the  saloon  men  and  told  them 
that  some  of  them  were  breaking  the  law  and  that  they  would 
be  expected  to  quit  it — then  we  would  get  along — but  if  they 
persisted  in  these  violations  I  should  ask  that  their  license 
be  forfeited. 

I  also  had  a  talk  with  the  leading  gamblers.  I  told  them 
that  gambling  would  not  be  tolerated  for  a  moment  and  that 


296  Trails  of  Yesterday 

I  had  instructed  the  marshal  and  police  to  stop  it,  and  that 
I  hoped  the  gamblers  would  not  force  me  to  extremes,  other- 
wise I  should  cause  them  all  the  trouble  they  wanted.  Tucker 
of  Ogallala,  of  dance  house  fame  and  an  undesirable  citizen, 
who  had  killed  his  third  man,  offered  to  pay  into  the  city 
treasury  $50.00  per  month  for  the  privilege  of  running  a 
"quiet  little  joint,"  as  he  called  it,  and  said  he  would  make  it 
$100.00  per  month  and  put  up  a  bond  of  sufficient  amount, 
guaranteeing  all  a  square  deal  and  make  good  any  loss  from 
robberies  or  losses  that  might  occur  in  this  place,  if  we  would 
give  him  some  exclusive  rights  and  privileges.  I  told  him 
his  proposition  would  not  be  considered  for  a  moment  and 
that  the  best  thing  he  could  do  would  be  to  quit  the  game  or 
leave  the  city.  After  a  period  of  thirty  days,  he  concluded 
to  pack  up  and  leave.  I  happened  to  be  over  at  the  depot 
when  he  boarded  the  train.  He  bade  me  good-bye  and  said 
he  would  like  to  put  a  bullet  through  me  before  he  left. 

To  show  the  bankrupt  state  of  the  city's  funds  and  its 
credit  among  our  merchants,  the  street  commissioner  needed 
a  few  planks  to  repair  a  broken  culvert.  The  lumber  dealer 
refused  to  furnish  them  unless  I  personally  guaranteed  the 
payment  of  the  bill.    I  did  this  and  we  got  the  planks. 

In  justice  to  the  members  of  the  council  and  every  city 
official  and  every  employee,  I  will  give  them  credit  for  aiding 
me  in  protecting  the  city's  interests  in  every  manner  they 
could.  Our  city  marshal  and  police  had  their  hands  full  in 
watching  the  gamblers  and  the  hoodlums.  They  defied  the 
marshal  and  one  day  all  set  upon  him,  intending  to  kill  him, 
but  they  did  not  know  their  man.  Honest,  fearless  Dick  H. 
Davis  took  their  abuse  and  their  beating.  He  could  and 
would  have  been  justified  in  killing  the  whole  gang  that  set 
on  him  but  did  not  do  so,  showing  not  only  his  nerve  but  his 
good  judgment.  All  were  arrested  and  given  the  full  penalty 
of  the  law.  His  fearless  course  not  only  frightened  them 
but  public  opinion  became  so  strong  against  this  element  that 
the  ringleaders,  like  Tucker,  left  the  city. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  297 

The  saloon  keepers,  with  a  few  exceptions,  were  keeping 
their  promises. 

The  churches  and  good  citizens  of  North  Platte  assisted 
me  and  the  city  officials  in  our  efforts  to  stamp  out  these  evils 
and  it  was  not  many  months  before  our  good  efforts  became 
manifest. 

The  Fourth  of  July  of  this  year  was  a  great  day.  The 
merchants  put  heart  and  soul  into  the  carnival.  The  secret 
orders  also  assisted  greatly.  I  believe  I  am  the  only  mayor 
North  Platte  ever  had,  who  succeeded  in  getting  all  the 
ministers  (including  the  Catholic  priest,  whom  I  placed  be- 
side the  Methodist  minister),  to  ride  in  one  carriage.  The 
amusements  were  all  moral  and  attractive.  The  fireworks 
in  the  evening  were  appreciated  by  the  great  crowd  that  wit- 
nessed them.  The  Volunteer  Fire  Department  took  special  in- 
terest in  making  the  celebration  a  grand  success.  What  pleased 
me  most  was  that  everything  passed  off  without  accident. 

By  the  reduction  of  salaries  and  the  practising  of  the 
strictest  economy,  we  saved  our  taxpayers  nearly  $800.00  the 
first  year's  administration,  enabling  us  to  pay  one-fourth  of  the 
water  company's  judgment  and  nearly  50%  of  the  floating 
indebtedness,  besides  establishing  the  city's  credit.  Gambling 
had  ceased,  hoodlum  gangs  had  been  broken  up,  owing  to  the 
earnest  efforts  of  the  city  marshal,  Dick  Davis,  and  his  aids. 

As  the  spring  election  approached,  I  was  again  urged  to 
become  a  candidate  for  the  office  of  mayor.  I  did  not  want 
a  second  term  except  to  complete  the  work  I  had  mapped 
out:  namely,  to  reduce  taxes  and  to  put  the  city's  finances  in 
proper  business  shape,  to  uplift  its  moral  standards  and  use 
my  every  effort  to  make  our  city  better,  bigger  and  more 
progressive.  I  tried  to  be  the  mayor  of  the  city,  seeking  the 
welfare  of  every  citizen,  and  not  of  a  faction  or  entrenched 
interests.  I  believed  then  and  believe  now  and  always  shall 
believe  that  the  people  should  own  all  their  utilities  that  God 
has  given  them,  and  if  any  profit,  it  should  be  applied  to  the 
reduction  of  taxes. 


298  Trails  of  Yesterday 

I  had  neglected  my  private  business*  but  was  urged  to 
accept  a  second  term  by  so  many  good  people  that  I  thought 
it  my  duty  to  serve.  The  result  was  I  was  re-elected  by  a 
good  majority.  I  again  called  the  members  of  the  council 
for  a  conference  and  suggested  we  all  serve  without  pay,  the 
same  as  the  members  of  the  school  board.  This  proposition 
was  tabled,  but  the  members  agreed  to  cut  their  salaries  50%, 
the  same  as  the  last  term.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  they  failed 
to  do  so.  I  was  the  only  one  who  made  the  reduction. 
Although  my  council  did  not  reduce  their  salaries,  they  gave 
the  city  valuable  assistance  in  the  economical  management 
of  its  affairs  and  at  the  end  of  the  second  term  we  paid  an- 
other one-fourth  of  the  water  company's  judgment  against 
the  city  and  nearly  all  the  floating  indebtedness  and  further 
established  the  city's  credit  on  a  solid  basis.  Taxes  were 
further  reduced  and  the  rich  and  poor  got  a  square  deal. 
We  made  many  improvements  in  our  crossings,  bettered  the 
condition  of  our  streets  and  alleys,  and  built  up  our  fire  de- 
partment. Not  a  dollar  was  wasted  or  misappropriated.  I 
had  done  my  duty  fearlessly  and  without  favor  to  my  friends 
or  punishment  to  my  enemies.  I  could  have  been  nominated 
for  a  third  term  but  I  declined  the  honor. 

I  look  back  upon  my  two  terms  as  mayor  of  North  Platte 
with  some  degree  of  satisfaction. 

To  show  that  I  did  not  please  everyone,  about  this  time 
I  received  a  threatening  letter,  telling  me  I  would  be  killed 
and  my  building  on  Front  Street  blown  up  if  I  did  not  deposit 
$500.00  in  gold  by  a  certain  time  on  a  certain  night  at  a  certain 
place  upstairs  in  the  rear  of  my  building.  Not  wishing  to 
have  my  life  ended  and  my  building  blown  up  so  abruptly, 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  evening  I  had  to  make  the  deposit 

*  After  the  dissolution  of  the  Equitable  Farm  and  Stock  Improvement 
Co.,  the  writer  opened  a  real  estate  office  and  in  the  year  1900  went  into 
partnership  with  Edward  R.  Goodman  (later  his  son-in-law).  In  a  few  years 
a  prosperous  business  was  established  which  necessitated  taking  in  a  third 
partner.  Two  years  before  the  writer's  death  Newton  E.  Buckley  (also  a 
son-in-law)  was  asked  to  come  into  the  firm  under  the  present  name  of  Bratt, 
Goodman  and  Buckley. 


Trails  of  Yesterday  299 

of  the  $500.00  in  gold  I  went  to  the  bank  and  carried  back 
in  my  hands,  up  Dewey  Street  and  into  my  office  on  Front 
Street,  a  sack  resembling  that  amount  in  gold,  which  at  eight 
o'clock  that  evening  I  carried  up  my  hall  by  the  front  stairs 
and  deposited  in  the  place  designated  in  the  letter.  That 
afternoon  I  smuggled  into  a  room  three  men,  who  with  three 
loaded  guns,  took  their  places  on  an  elevated  table,  from 
which  they  could  easily  kill  any  one  who  tried  to  pick  up 
that  sack  of  gold.  In  reality  this  sack  of  gold  was  a  sack 
of  iron  washers.  Enough  to  say,  the  man  did  not  come  for 
the  sack  of  gold.  The  threat  may  have  been  a  joke  or  the 
writer  may  have  meant  it.  I  thought  I  knew  the  writer,  the 
writing  bearing  a  great  resemblance  to  a  signed  letter  that 
I  happened  to  have  in  my  possession.  I  had  this  party 
shadowed  for  several  weeks  but  failed  to  get  sufficient  evidence 
to  connect  him  with  writing  and  mailing  me  the  letter,  hence 
I  will  call  it  a  joke. 

In  conclusion,  I  will  state  that  in  writing  this  autobiog- 
raphy I  have  endeavored  to  confine  myself  to  facts  recorded 
at  the  time  or  shortly  after  they  occurred,  the  same  jotted 
down  in  notes,  memorandum  or  diary  if  I  happened  to  have 
that  with  me.  Sometimes  these  were  written  under  difficulties 
in  tent,  wagon  box,  ranch,  or  on  the  open  prairie,  if  not  on 
my  field  desk;  perhaps  on  a  cracker  box,  the  cook's  bread 
board,  the  end  gate  or  seat  of  a  wagon,  the  skirts  of  my 
saddle  or  on  an  ox  yoke.  These  facts  are  what  I  have  seen 
and  done  in  years  of  earnest  activity,  often  at  the  risk  of  my 
life.  The  night  was  never  too  dark  or  stormy,  the  distance 
too  great,  the  river  too  deep,  too  wide  or  too  swift  for  me 
to  tackle  it.  Confidence  in  my  ability  to  make  it  never  left  me. 
I  knew  and  felt  an  Infinite  Protector  with  me  always.  I  be- 
lieved an  Indian  could  not  kill  me  or  do  me  bodily  harm. 
The  Guardian  Angel,  often  referred  to  in  these  chapters, 
always  seemed  to  be  with  me;  filled  me  with  courage  and  con- 
fidence that  I  would  come  through  in  safety.  In  leaving 
home  both  mother  and  father,  in  saying  the  last  good-bye, 
whispered  to  me  that  their  constant  prayer  would  be  for  my 


300  Trails  of  Yesterday 

safety.  I  often  thought  I  heard  that  earnest  prayer  when 
things  seemed  to  be  going  against  me.  I  would  hear  a  voice 
say:  "You  will  come  out  all  right.  God  is  your  protector." 
I  was  not  a  saint,  a  "goody-goody"  fellow,  nor  a  hypocrite. 
I  liked  the  good  and  had  no  use  for  the  bad.  I  did  not  drink, 
smoke  or  gamble.  I  always  thought,  and  still  think,  that 
a  man  ought  to  be  as  pure  as  a  woman.  I  have  often  been 
criticised  for  these  so-called  "shortcomings"  in  my  early  educa- 
tion, but  it  is  now  too  late  to  make  the  change.  I  have  passed 
my  seventieth  birthday  and  will,  no  doubt,  get  through  the 
rest  of  my  life  without  these  accomplishments. 

I  have  met  and  talked  with  many  of  our  old  employees 
who  have  made  good.  Again,  I  sometimes  meet  some  less  for- 
tunate. Drink,  cards  and  other  weaknesses  have  been  their 
curses.  These  often  ask  me  for  aid,  sometimes  a  meal, 
a  night's  lodging  or  railroad  fare.  I  usually  give  these,  which 
they  promise  to  return,  but  they  forget,  poor  fellows !  They 
are  to  be  pitied.  I  listen  to  their  stories,  give  them  the  benefit 
of  the  doubt,  and  if  I  cannot  find  them  work,  help  them  to 
their  destination. 

If  I  knew  the  addresses  of  these  old  associates,  who  have 
shared  these  hardships  with  me,  I  would  gladly  mail  them  a 
copy  of  this  book,  if  printed  before  I  pass  "under  the  wire." 
It  would  remind  them  of  many  familiar  scenes. 

While  there  were  many  hardships,  there  were  some  sunny 
spots  in  this  fascinating  frontier  life;  every  day,  every  hour 
something  new  and  interesting:  the  beautiful  scenery,  the 
great  rivers  stocked  with  fish,  the  lofty  mountains  with  peaks 
covered  with  perpetual  snow,  the  great  plains  and  broad  val- 
leys dotted  with  the  antelope,  deer,  elk,  buffalo,  often  the 
river  brush  and  quaking  asp  groves  being  the  home  of  the 
bear,  coyotes  and  wolves.  To  a  lover  of  nature,  it  seemed 
sacrilegious  to  break  into  this  paradise.  No  wonder  the  In- 
dian considered  the  "pale  face"  his  natural  enemy,  intruder 
and  trespasser  on  his  domain.  But  it  is  the  old  story — "The 
survival  of  the  fittest."  Progress  and  civilization  were  bound 
to  conquer.    The  Indian  fought  hard  and  died  hard.    Spotted 


Trails  of  Yesterday  301 

Tail  expressed  his  meaning  truthfully  and  vividly  on  his  re- 
turn trip  to  his  people  from  Washington,  D.  C,  when  speak- 
ing of  the  large  number  of  white  people,  he  picked  up  a  hand- 
ful of  sand,  saying  the  whites  were  like  those  grains  of  sand — 
it  was  impossible  to  count  them.  His  people  would  not  be- 
lieve him.  Some  said  he  spoke  falsely,  others  claimed  he  had 
been  bribed  and  a  few  called  him  a  coward  because  he  re- 
fused to  continue  war  on  the  whites.  One  of  his  bands 
threatened  to  waylay  and  kill  him  on  his  return  through 
Scotts  bluff.  He  was  sent  back  to  his  people  in  a  United 
States  ambulance  with  a  military  escort,  but  instead  of  riding 
through  the  bluffs,  gun  in  hand  he  walked  over  the  top  of 
them. 

In  their  many  years  of  war  with  the  whites,  the  Indians 
met  with  some  success  as  in  the  Phil  Kearny,  Custer  and 
other  massacres,  but  later  they  were  compelled  to  surrender. 
Disease  and  other  causes  have  greatly  depleted  their  number. 
The  older  Indians  have  never  taken  kindly  to  reservation  life. 
When  first  given  the  white  man's  clothes,  they  cut  the  seats 
out  of  the  pants.  When  houses  were  built  for  them  to  live 
in,  consumption  took  them  rapidly.  The  younger  genera- 
tions have  been  and  are  being  educated  at  schools  in  the  East 
and  on  the  reservations.  At  first  these  made  little  improve- 
ment among  them.  They,  however,  are  now  doing  better. 
The  government  has  sent  practical  farmers  and  stock  raisers 
among  them,  including  many  competent,  good  women  teachers 
among  the  squaws,  who  are  teaching  them  to  properly  care 
for  their  homes  and  families,  teaching  them  domestic  science, 
and  since  their  land  has  been  allotted  them,  it  is  wonderful  to 
note  the  progress  they  are  making.  Even  some  of  these 
college  graduate  teachers,  sent  out  by  the  government  to  in- 
struct them,  are  in  such  love  with  their  work  that  they  have 
condescended  to  marry  full-blooded  Indians.  A  few  years 
hence  the  full-blooded  Indian  will  exist  in  history  only.  Prej- 
udice against  him  is  rapidly  vanishing.  With  a  little  more 
civilization  and  education,  the  Indian  will  take  his  place 
among  our  best  type  of  citizens  and  even  to-day  they  are  pref- 


302  Trails  of  Yesterday 

erable  to  many  illiterate,  criminal  foreigners  who  are  coming 
to  our  shores. 

The  pioneers  and  earlier  settlers  have  well  and  faithfully 
performed  their  mission.  Much  honor  is  due  them  for  the 
important  part  they  have  taken  in  the  civilization  of  the  Red 
Man  and  the  settlement  of  this  vast  Western  empire.  Mark 
the  change  in  a  few  short  years.  Law  and  order  have  taken 
the  place  of  the  vigilance  committee.  The  desperado  has 
either  met  his  fate  or  become  good.  The  church  and  Sunday- 
school  have  driven  out  the  frontier  gambling  halls  and  lewd 
dance  houses,  and  while  we  have  some  bad  people  with  us 
yet,  I  believe  the  world  is  growing  better. 

I  am  now  taking  life  easier  than  I  used  to,  living  happily 
with  my  family,  children  and  grandchildren.  I  expect  to  live 
many  years  yet.  My  purse  has  always  been  open,  and  ever 
will  be,  to  help  fight  for  the  interests  of  my  fellow  citizens. 
When  the  final  summons  comes  I  shall  be  ready  to  obey  it 
without  fear  for  the  future. 

With  love  for  all  and  malice  toward  none,  when  death 
shall  come,  I  desire  that  my  brother  Sir  Knights  Templar  shall 
take  charge  of  my  remains  and  deposit  them  tenderly  in  the 
grave.  My  spirit  will  go  back  to  the  God  who  gave  it  but 
will  be  with  you  and  the  loved  ones  through  eternity. 


DEDICATED  TO  MY  BELOVED  WIFE, 
CHILDREN    AND    GRANDCHILDREN 


b(o 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


Serie 


3  1205  02529  5211 


'wUju^a 


' 


vLu/^ 


iiiiiiilfflSiiL'BRARVFAC,L'TY 

AA    000  879  111    3 


J         fLU'ltl-MI- 


HI 

i 

lllllll 

I 


I      I    II    I 


